


The Awakening of Wolves

by EverythingCounts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: .... on both sides!, But definitely a happy ending, Consensual Kink, Curiosity, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Kink Discovery, Mentions of past abuse, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sansa has some questions... Jon has some answers..., Slow Romance, Some drama and angst, Turns out Jon also has some questions and Sansa has the answers, Unresolved Tension, overcoming the past, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingCounts/pseuds/EverythingCounts
Summary: A year has passed after the destruction of Kings Landing, and Sansa is tired of having to carry the burden of the crown all by herself. So she decides that she has waited long enough for Jon to come to his senses. So she gets on a horse, rides north, and brings him back home.Once reunited Jon and Sansa embark on a journey of self-discovery, of enigmas uncovered, of desires unfolded.It's a game they play with simple rules: No lies, no secrets, no broken promises, only the truth.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 279
Kudos: 593





	1. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story popped up in my head and I thought why not try my hand in writing it? So here is the first chapter, which I have written fairly quickly and most likely posted way too soon. But I'm curious if there's any interest before I continue. 
> 
> Fair warning: This story will contain lots of explicit sexual content and language, but not from the get go. It will grow and develop gradually. What I mean is, there's also a story behind the smut. But still, if NFWS content isn't your thing...

At last the sun has settled down behind the trees and roofs of Winterfell, giving way to the dark and quiet of the night. Sansa makes herself comfortable in her bed, while she watches the night sky, spangled with glittering stars. The fire in the hearth bestows warmth and a soft light, and it is as cosy as she remembers it from years long gone. But wrapping the furs snuggly around herself, she sighs deeply, wishing she would feel as peaceful as the times once were, and are again, finally, now that all the wars have been fought and won. After years of pain, of horrors, of betrayals, the North is free and thriving, even in the midst of ongoing winter. Alas, Sansa neither feels peaceful nor free. 

After she returned from the South a year ago, she has been undecided how she should feel. Relieved that the constant struggles seemed to be over, that all her enemies were dead and gone? Sad that no one dear to her returned home with her? Happy to be crowned queen, at least one of her childhood dreams coming true, even if she hasn't wanted it anymore? Afraid of the challenges that surely lie ahead as Queen in the North? It turned out it was none of those when slowly, but steadily growing, another emotion pushed to the fore, like a constant thrumming in her head that never lets her rest. 

Anger.

By now, fury is Sansa's constant companion, almost all-consuming, especially on days like this. With a huff she picks up the paper lying on the bedside table to read it again. She shouldn't, she knows. Nothing good ever comes from reading his letters over and over, dissecting every word. It only ever increases her frustration.

_Sansa,_  
_I hope you are faring well. I just read a letter from Bran. He writes that Arya has found an island and that she and her men are exploring it. So far, they haven’t met people there. I must admit, I am a bit envious. To think she wanders lands that no one has ever set foot on before? I pray she'll return safe someday to tell us all about it._  
_Life at Castle Black is as uneventful as it has been since my return. More repairs have been done, but that is all that can be reported. Is all well at home? I know you have little time to spare, but I do hope you'll write again soon._  
_Ghost misses you._  
_Jon_

Sansa fights off the urge to rip the paper into shreds. She knows perfectly well that Jon isn't at Castle Black, at least not permanently, and he knows that she knows. He only shows up there every few moons, stays a few nights to pick up her letter and to send his reply, and then he returns to his peaceful life as a free man beyond the Wall. All the while Sansa has to carry the burden of ruling, of cleaning up the mess he had left behind. She wants to scream at the unfairness. 

It is not that Sansa wants to rid herself of the duty and give it back to Jon. She might have thought so in the beginning, but not anymore. She has grown into the role and wants to be the good queen the North deserves. She tries her hardest to follow her father's footsteps, and she believes to have succeeded so far. Her people seem to love her, highborns and smallfolk alike. Perhaps more importantly, they also respect her. She hadn't been sure if the Northerners would accept a young, decidedly unmarried, woman to rule them, Stark or not. So far, they do and it does give her at least some power over her own destiny, even if she knows that she eventually has a duty to fulfil to her House and kingdom.

Yes, Sansa wants to rule, and why shouldn't she? She is good at it, certainly better than he ever was. Although, perhaps that is unfair too, she thinks with a frown. She doesn't have to deal with an army of the dead marching towards them. There is no evil queen in the South either. Nor another one riding fire spitting beasts, demanding submission with her every breath. No, Sansa doesn't have to face any of those obstacles, but the past isn't the reason for her anger anyway.

Well, perhaps it is, she wonders. Jon got off so easy, after all he has done then, or hasn't done. At first, she hasn't seen it like that, of course. Instead, she found it so very wrong that Jon was punished for killing the dragon bitch, when in truth he has saved them from the same fate as the poor people of Kings Landing. She even felt guilty for not being able to prevent it, for not bringing him home. How foolish, she reprimands herself now, still stupid even after all these years.

Though, once she realised that he got the better deal, the guilt vanished and was replaced by rage. The more hours she spent in council meetings and court hearings, the more days spent with making decisions from sunrise to nightfall, the more she began to despise Jon's freedom from all of this. He has made choices which have been his downfall, all by himself. He ignored her opinions, her warnings, belittled her worries, and has led them straight into abyss in the end. The North became complicit in the slaughter of hundreds and thousands of innocents, because he has sworn himself and his people to Daenerys Targaryen. And yet-

Sansa inhales deeply, rubbing her face, and biting down her lip to prevent the scream that's building within her from escaping. 

And yet, Jon successfully fled from the consequences, while she couldn't. Maybe he didn't leave of his free will at first, but she knows he is glad now to be forbidden from returning home. And that simply isn't acceptable. She does her best not to let her outrage show, of course, and she is good at hiding her true emotions. But once she is alone, her mind goes back to Jon and how he has broken every single promise he has ever made to her.

Where will **we** go.

He hasn't watched over her, he hasn't protected her, he has left her behind again and again, and then went into the woods and dares to enjoy a carefree life with his friends, his direwolf and only the gods know who else. Would he even tell her if he put a babe in some spearwife? Sansa doubts it, they are keeping up the pretence after all, in case the letters are intercepted. Which is idiotic in itself, because Grey Worm and his remaining Unsullied have left Westeros, and if Bran is right, all perished on some island with poisonous butterflies or something. The rest of Westeros is busy with rebuilding what has been destroyed in prior years and its wars. No one cares one bit about Jon Snow.

Except Sansa. Some days it seems as if all her thoughts surround him. She wakes up wondering if Jon was already awake this early, like he used to, or if he stays abed longer now. She lies down at night wondering if he is just as tired from the day's tasks as she is, if he feels as lonely as she does, or if he has someone warming his bed.

Most likely, she presumes annoyed. There's hardly a man as pretty as Jon in the North. He most likely just has to sit in a corner brooding, and they flock to him like moths to a flame. Sansa groans, she shouldn't think about that. It doesn't matter if Jon has found someone or not. That wasn't the point, and not the reason for her anger either.

They were supposed to share the burden. They were supposed to trust, to rely on, to have faith in each other. Instead she is alone, while Jon apparently spends his days envying Arya's adventures. He would sooner follow her little sister to some unknown faraway place instead of coming back to her.

The nerve of him, Sansa seethes. The desire to go up there and drag him back herself is getting stronger with every breath she takes. It is not a new idea, but one she had entertained before. She deserves peace just as much as everyone, doesn't she? Yet sometimes she feels as if she is the only one who didn't get any wish fulfilled in return for the suffering she had endured. Maybe – most likely – it isn't right to think that. Maybe – most likely – she should be happy for her siblings – and cousin – that at least they got what they have wanted. Although, if her little brother has really ever wanted the southern throne, she isn't sure, but he sounds fairly content in his letters. Then again, he has Brienne, Davos, Sam, and Podrick, people he trusts surrounding him. Even godsdamn Tyrion got what he wanted the most, despite being a Lannister and that he brought Daenerys to Westeros in the first place. How is that any fair? It isn't. 

Sansa has a crown she hasn't wanted once she learned what crowns did to people. What she wanted the most was to have her family back, but they are scattered around the world once again. What is a home worth, with no one there to share their life with? Not much.

It shouldn't be like that, it isn't at all how she imagined it to be in her dreams. She shouldn't need to walk through empty halls, her voice shouldn't be the only one heard in the void of abandoned chambers. She knows she shouldn't, but she just can't help it. Sansa wants Jon back, more than anything. If only to shout at him in person and not just in her head anymore. The more she thinks about it, the more resolute she gets. If she can't be happy and carefree, neither should he. If she has to carry the burden of the crown neither of them wanted, the least he should do is helping to ease the weight.

The decision made, Sansa drifts off into slumber, with a smile on her lips. 

It doesn't take long to prepare the journey. Of course, her council doesn't understand why she would take on such a strenuous and potentially dangerous travel herself. She appeases them by explaining how important a good relationship with the Free Folk is, and that it wouldn't do to just have emissaries send in her stead. It isn't a lie, Sansa truly intends to speak with Tormund about trade and such, but it is still just a convenient excuse.

It does make her angry though, that he forces her to take up such an extreme approach. As usual, Jon is making things much more difficult than they have to be. She has asked him to return in her letters a few times, which have been a wasted effort. He answered that he didn't want to risk the wrath of the South and Daenerys’ supporters, and didn't want to risk her safety. He even had the impudence to claim that he only stayed away to protect her. As if the past hadn't proven that they were always stronger together than alone. Being lone wolves never worked in their favour. Never.

So, Sansa mounts her horse and rides north. She hasn't sent a letter announcing her visit as it is expected, especially to allies that are not her subjects. Her entourage doesn't know that either. It will be a surprise for everyone then, she thinks and can't help to snicker amused when she imagines their faces, Jon's face. She will claim that the raven must have gone lost. She knows that if she would have written, there would be a good chance that he would disappear before she arrived. Wandering off deeper into the woods, not to be found until she left again. He doesn't want to leave his make-believe life to go back to the place where he has to face his failures. It's much easier to be far away, being with people who doesn't know nor care about the truth, and pretending to be someone else.

Sansa won't let Jon pretend any longer. They are the last Starks of Winterfell, ice flows in their veins, and they endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading and please let me know if you think it's worth another chapter. xoxo


	2. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really happy about the response for the first chapter. Thanks to all who have taken the time to comment and to leave kudos! It really motivated me to write the second chapter, and I hope it doesn't disappoint.

The wind is a soft breeze and the sun shines bright, warming Jon's face as he sits leisurely by the riverside fishing. Spring is in the air, at least for today. It could all be over tomorrow and he might have to shovel through mountains of snow to get to the shore. Either way, days like these are his favourite, enjoying the quiet for hours, without having much to do but to change the bait once a fish trashed around the hook. Dinner literally comes out of its own volition, Jon thinks, smirking pleased. Life couldn't possibly be any easier.

Some hours later the sun begins to set, and his stomach growls, so Jon stands up, takes the bucket with the fish he has caught, and walks towards his hut, just a few steps behind him. He is proud of his new home, which he has built by himself. It is small, only one room, but he doesn't need more. He has chosen an ideal location for it, close by the river, the thick forest at its back, and a sufficient distance away from the new settlement of the Free Folk. It allows Jon to spend as many days in peaceful solitude as he wants, but at the same time when he does crave some company, he only has to take a quick stroll to see his friends. It is as perfect as it could possibly be.

He closes the door behind him, in which he has put special effort when he has made it. It is of the hardest wood he could find, and it has not one but two beams to prevent any intruders from entering. Maybe it is a bit overdone, he guesses. Then again, he really just wants to avoid a repetition of the unannounced nightly visits he has gotten when he still slept in a tent.

He frowns annoyed at the memories of the eager women who tried to steal him. He has fought them off as gentle as he could, and luckily nothing severe happened, besides a scratch here and there. He has always found the concept of stealing dubious at best, and he has no intention to participate in it, one way or the other.

Jon likes fierce women, but he has clear perceptions about what he considers proper and what decidedly not. He might live amongst the Free Folk, but he can't rid himself of the boy who was raised in Winterfell. So yes, he likes women, ladies, in pretty dresses, with a pleasing flowery scent following their every step, their voices soft, their smiles kind, and their hugs tight and caring. He misses the hugs the most, he finds and sighs deep.

It's no use to reminisce what he can't have, he scolds himself, as he puts the bucket on the table and sits down to prepare his dinner. He's become a fairly good cook, he believes. He even collects herbs, berries and whatever edible he finds to enhance the variety of his dishes. It's also one of his favourite things to do, wandering through the woods with Ghost, collecting whatever he finds.

As he cuts the fish open and cleans it, he remembers the last girl who has surprised him one night. She has been young and pretty, and desperate. In a way, he understands them. There were not many men left amongst the Free Folk, at least young and healthy ones. To them his refusal seems a wasted good alternative, and he can't deny that he has been tempted. He has grown a bit tired of his hand as the only source of relief. For the other men it's like paradise, he assumes, many have two or even three women who share their furs. Jon doesn't want that either. He just wants-

But then he thinks back of why he ended up here, and he can't stop the memories flooding his mind. Of how she has looked at him, her desire plain and how she hasn't left him any choice but to give her what she wanted. It always makes Jon feel sick. He has given her his body for her dragons and army, and pretended she would have his soul as well, so that she do his bidding without noticing it. She had, just as he planned and hoped, and then he lost his nerves to follow through with the deceit properly. She turned out to be his aunt, and she helped to save them against the Others, the least he should do was to fight for that cursed throne, that she craved so much, he had decided then. Damn honour, Jon always thinks at this point. In the end, he has lost his soul to Daenerys after all. 

Perhaps he really should fuck one of the women so willing, so desperate. If only to not allow Daenerys to be the last woman he has laid with anymore, to make sure that the last cunt he has put his cock into doesn't belong to a monster. It might spare him a few of his nightmares.

Jon won't though. He knows he doesn't deserve salvation from his sins, from his failures. Which is also why he refuses Sansa's offers to return home. He can't be rewarded with getting what he has always wanted the most. Besides, he knows now that he truly is a dragon, the worst kind even, one hiding in wolf's clothing. He wishes it would be because he accidentally coupled with his aunt. It's not, but she doesn't know that, of course. Sweet Sansa probably just misses her brother, while he wakes up at night from dreams that would have her recoil in disgust.

He grunts when he throws the fish into the pot together with the herbs and berries. Sansa. Jon knows he shouldn't think of her so often, but he can't help it. He wakes up wondering if she is already awake too or if she still sleeps longer. He goes to bed wondering if she ever thinks of him during the day, or if she is too busy with being the good queen that he knows she is. If she ever feels as alone as he does, if she ever imagines speaking with him, too. Sometimes he spends whole days having conversations with her in his head. It's not good, he is aware. They always fight, but Jon doesn't mind. It's just who they are. No other person riles him up like Sansa does, but he is not complaining. That's not good either, he knows.

Jon thinks he hears some shouts from the village, but that isn't anything unusual. The Free Folk are not the quiet kind of people, so he returns his attention to the pot on the fire. It will be a delicious soup, and he looks forward to it. Jon's easy to please these days.

Indeed, he should be happy, shouldn't he? He told Tormund that he wished to go with him to the “true" North, before he followed Daenerys in the opposite, and undoubtedly wrong, direction. He hasn't wanted to go with the Free Folk, not truly, but it was still better than going South. Well, he got what he wanted after all, and much more. No worries to bother him, no responsibilities to drag him down, no one to care for but himself. He is a free man, despite his regular visits to Castle Black to keep up the pretence, and to pick up the letters from his siblings, no, cousins. It is better for his state of mind to remind himself of that. Really, in the least he should stop calling Sansa “sister", and most certainly in those haunting dreams.

Thank the Gods, the soup has simmered long enough and Jon takes it from the fire. He fills a bowl, and sits down to eat, forcing his thoughts to concentrate on ideas to improve this already very tasteful dinner, or what he should do tomorrow, or just anything else. 

Afterwards, he picks up the dishes and walks back to the river to clean them. Tormund jokes that it's no wonder all the women are so besotted with him. Not only is it known that he is the greatest swordsman that ever walked the earth, that he cheats death, rides dragons and direwolves, and is prettier than even the fairest maid. No, he also builds timber houses and furniture, he mends his clothes, cooks and even cleans up after himself. No ordinary man stands the tiniest chance compared with that. But at least his pecker is small, he usually says then, and bursts out laughing at his own joke.

Jon doesn't mind his friend's jesting. He is grateful to still have one, every other friend he ever had either dead or far away. The Free Folk also don't remind him much about the past. It makes it a lot easier to live carefree when there is no one reminding him of all the mistakes he has made. Sansa wouldn't let him forget.

He kneels down and bends over the water, and thinks that Sansa would also love him, still. He knows she misses him, and he misses her too, so much it's painful. He tells her in every letter, but he knows it's not enough, it won't ever be unless he returns. He hates that he hurts her, but he hates even more that he doesn't deserve her love and care.

He hears wood cracking behind him, as if someone is sneaking up from behind. It doesn't worry him, it's probably just Ghost returning from his hunt, or Tormund stopping by, trying to scare him, Jon assumes and continues his task. Then it's quiet again for minutes, and he figures it might have been nothing after all.

“Jon,” someone whispers his name, and he freezes.

Is he going mad, he wonders? Imagining Sansa isn't new, unfortunately, but that seemed eerily real. He shakes his head, and wills the voice to shut up. He won't break now. 

“Won't you even look at me?” Imaginary Sansa asks, and Jon closes his eyes. It usually helps to breathe deep and slow. It can't be, she's in Winterfell, not here.

Jon hears a snort, which is expected. Imaginary Sansa huffs and snorts a lot at him. But there's also wood cracking again, closer now. It can't be, she can't be here, he tells himself, and forces his body to not give into the urge to turn around. He knows he will be devastatingly disappointed when all he sees is the forest behind his hut.

So, he opens his eyes again and scrubs the damn pot with violent strokes. He won't break, he won't break now! He repeats, over and over, when a hand grabs his shoulder, pulling him around so strongly, the pot drops into the river, and he falls on his ass.

She's standing tall over him, glaring down with narrowed eyes, lips pressed in a thin line, and her chest heaving, fast and breathless. Her dress is covered in sprinkles of dirt, and her hair is half lose from her braid. She looks messy, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon, and just this instant he knows why she's come. He finds, he has no strength left to refuse her.

“You have nothing to say then?” she asks incredulously. 

Jon opens his mouth but nothing but thin air comes out. So she turns around and strives towards his hut. 

“What a lovely place,” she says, seething. “It seems as if life has treated you kindly since Kings Landing.”

At last Jon scrambles up from the ground and hurries after her into his humble home. He watches her every move as she starts inspecting the room. She slowly wanders around, her fingertips grazing along the table and chair, the small cupboards where he stores his belongings. She stops in front of the bed, and turns around. 

“You're enjoying your little carefree life here in the woods, aren't you?”

"It's... all right.”

“All right...," she scoffs. "Is that good enough for you?”

He sighs. “It's much more than I could have expected.”

She stares daggers at him, and then approaches him slowly. Jon thinks of a wolf stalking its prey. His heartbeat picks up speed.

"I got less than what I deserve," she hisses. "While you certainly deserve less than what you got.”

Oh, she's stirring up the beast. “You came to punish me?” He asks, as she stops in front of him, so close he feels her warm breath on his cheeks.

“You know why I came, and it is up to you to decide if it's punishment or not,” she answers with a shrug. “It's all the same to me.”

“I told you why I can't go back home,” he tries again, but he already knows how weak his resolve is. “I won't ever risk-"

“If there would be any risk, I would not have come here,” she interrupts, sounding convinced, but Jon knows it’s a lie and he smirks. She marched South once with every Northerner still standing just to save him, risking another war right after they had fought battle after battle for what had seemed an eternity. He sees the hint of a smile when she realises that he saw through her false claim.

Sansa turns around, and sits down in one of the two chairs he's built. She bends down, begins to unlace her boots, and says, “I'm tired, and I have no patience left.” 

She does look exhausted, he notices just now, and feels somewhat guilty that he has made her come all this way. She takes off her boots and stands up, removing the cloak. 

“I will talk with Tormund tomorrow about trade arrangements and then we will leave the day after,” she explains. “So you have time until then to make your preparations.”

Sansa lies the cloak over the chair and then starts to unlace her dress. Jon is certain he should wonder what she is doing. Instead he walks over to the door and bars its two beams, then goes to the hearth and stokes the fire, making sure that she won't be cold.

He hears her fumbling with the fabric, and forces himself not to turn around to look at her. Reality and his dreams suddenly too close to make a reliable distinction of what's true and what not. She is here, yes, but she is not here the way he has dreamed about sometimes. He would do good to remember that, despite her ridding herself of her clothes.

She walks towards the bed, and states, “You sleep on the side of the wall.”

Surprised, he turns and lets out a relieved breath. She is wearing a simple woollen shift, which is thick and modest enough to not let Jon see anything that he has no business of ever seeing. 

“I sleep on the floor,” he replies at last and picks up some furs and blankets, before stepping to the other side of the room.

“No, you won't.”

“Sansa,” he warns, or pleads, he isn't sure. 

“No. You will lie beside me, so that I wake up if you try to sneak away.”

“I won't.”

“Because I won't let you.”

“Sansa..."

“Jon, get in the bed. Now.”

He notices the thrill that shots through him at her demanding tone. He suppresses the grunt that is threatening to escape and coughs instead. But he obliges, and while he's undressing until he is only in his breeches and tunic, he watches Sansa glancing over the furs covering the bed. She looks hesitant, and he is about to repeat that he would lie on the floor, when she asks after a moment,

“Who else has slept in here?”

“Who?”

“Yes, I guess it doesn't matter who. How many then?”

“How many?”

She huffs. “Women, Jon. How many have shared-"

“None.”

“None?”

“None,” he insists, and crawls into the bed, making himself comfortable under the furs. “What does it matter, Sansa?”

She stays quiet, refusing to answer and joins him under the furs at last, her expression still doubtful, and it hurts him a little, that she isn't sure if he has told the truth. They toss about a bit until they find a position that leaves enough space between them.

“Is this how it's going to be?” He asks, uncertain if he truly wants to know the answer. “You doubting all I say?”

Sansa laughs sardonically. “Why Jon, you think we have to trust each other?” She replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That we shouldn't fight a war amongst ourselves?”

Jon knows he deserves her fury, and that he's a coward for having tried to hide from it.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“Will you ever keep a promise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you say? Still interested to see where this might go? Thanks! xoxo


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there,
> 
> I am so happy about all the comments and kudos for the last chapter. Thank you so much!
> 
> I am trying not to overthink it while writing, otherwise no chapter would ever see the light if day. So maybe it doesn't make much sense in the grand scheme of things. Most likely I have forgotten some things that happened in the show and/or books. Bear with me!
> 
> So just for the sake of the story, let's pretend that some of Vary's letters have left Dragonstone before he died.

Sansa stares out the window, watching the clouds rolling by on the evening sky, so fast as if they're chased away by the terrors of the dark, awaking to haunt them in the night. But it's just another stormy day, and she thinks it's fitting. She should work on the mounting staple of letters in front of her, most arrived during her absence, and waiting for a response for weeks now. Yet, her mind is once again elsewhere, and she doesn't like it.

There is quite a lot Sansa doesn't like lately, and of course it's Jon who's raining on her parade. She leans back in her chair, inhales deeply and rubs her eyes, thinking about how unexpectedly quick she lost the moral high ground. She scolds herself for not having even considered that it could happen. No, she spent the last year nurturing her fury and fantasizing about how she would confront Jon about all his failures that have made her suffer so. She has to acknowledge, that it's a lot easier to be in the right when Jon is a figment of the imagination, saying only what she wants him to say, doing only what she wants him to do. 

Alas, Jon hasn't fallen on his knees yet, desperately begging her forgiveness. Instead he is angry with her, and she doesn't like that at all. The tide has turned, and not in her favour.

In hindsight it already began on their travel back to Winterfell. She has been a wreck. Happy, but still furious. Hopeful, but fearful too. Excited, but also confused. Trusting, but doubting at the same time. It was exhausting, being constantly on the edge and she just couldn't hide it, bristling and bickering at everything and Jon in particular. Stuck in her own emotional mayhem, she hasn't noticed how he silently grew more and more agitated, until he snapped. Out of the blue, he has grabbed the reins of her horse and forced them both to stop, and demanded to know if he is her prisoner now, surrounded by her and the guards at all times, not allowed to even take a piss in peace. Why, by the Gods, would she want him home, when she despises him so?

She has been stunned, gazed into his wide dark eyes, full of hurt and begging her to say that it wasn't so, that he was still free and wanted, but not a sound left her mouth.

Of course she wouldn't leave his side, nothing good ever happened when they have left each other out of sight. He knows that! No? But has he suffered when they have been separated, wondering if they would ever see each other alive, like she had whenever he left her behind? She didn't know, but feared the truth, and said nothing.

Would he understand that her confused mind needed assurance that he was truly there, and not just her imaginary companion any longer? Has he ever spoken with her, even though she was thousands of miles away? But it felt so real, he had to pinch himself? She was too afraid to admit it, and kept quiet.

Does he want to be with her, and live together in Winterfell as they were supposed to, nothing and no one allowed to disturb their peace? Or would he disappear again if he could, escaping deep into the Haunted Forest, so that she would never find him? If she would ask, and he would want to, she would let him leave. So, she didn't ask, and kept her greatest fear a secret.

Jon hasn't taken well to her silence. Once he found his voice back, he used it well and true. Sansa doesn't dare to think of what the guards were thinking then, listening to them petty fighting like little children about all and nothing. She doesn't dare to think about how it makes her feel. Jon is so infuriating, always riling her up like no one else, and it makes her body tingle with excitement. Sansa doesn't like that either.

They're back in Winterfell almost a week now, and his return went as smooth as she has wished for. Everyone has been the epitome of cheerfulness at seeing him. She has watched satisfied how his insecurities vanished and were replaced by happiness. She wants it no other way. He is hers to be furious with, everyone else should show him the respect he deserves. 

The best moment has been when they reached his chamber, and he realised that she has kept all his belongings just the way he has left them, as if she always expected him to return. When he has thanked her, eyes glimmering with gratitude, she has believed it to be the turning point.

It lasted only for a blink of the eye. Once settled, cleaned and fed, she has shown him the repairs and changes that have been done in his absence. When they were crossing the yard, someone, a stable boy maybe, has come up to tell him how good it was to see him, and that Winterfell has missed him dearly. It could have been so perfect, Sansa thinks now, covering her eyes with her hand. She still sees the smile on Jon's face, the one that's so rare, so bright, it's blindingly beautiful, and heats her blood until it's boiling. Distracted, she has almost missed when the boy bowed and addressed him as “Lord Targaryen”. 

The smile died a quick death, and Jon simply stood there unmoving, staring at the poor boy, who noticed his mistake and stuttered an apology before running away scared shitless. Sansa can still feel the chill creeping up inside, when he slowly turned around. It was as if the world stopped turning, and all joy ceased to exist, his glare freezing cold and hard, when he walked past her. She hasn't seen him for two days afterwards, and she hated it. It wasn't supposed to be like that.

She frowns, when she turns from the window to the sizzling fire in the hearth, before her eyes find the source of her constant chagrin. Jon sits leisurely in the armchair, feet resting on the footstool, head cushioned by fluffy pillows, reading some book he has picked from the library. He looks as if he wouldn't have a care in the world, but it's all for show, Sansa knows. The morning of the third day, he marched up to her when she was breaking her fast, sat down next to her, grabbed a piece of bread, and only bestowed her with a scolding look. He hasn't said it, but she knows all the same what he meant. She's as shit as he is at keeping promises.

Since then he follows her every minute awake, gets up in the morning when she does, eats when she does, reads when she does, inspects the glass gardens when she does, goes to bed when she does, always with a bow and a polite “Sweet dreams, Your Grace”, before he departs for his chamber. She doesn't like that she always wishes he would stay. She scolds herself for it, too. She was reckless when she has forgone propriety and stayed in his hut, with a whole entourage of guards waiting for her return to the village. She hasn't been thinking clearly then, hasn't considered the consequences, has cared for nothing but being with him.

She has kept to her own bed since then, and it should be enough to know that he is in his chamber, safe and sound. It isn't. Not with the knowledge of how warm it is to lie beside him under the furs, of how rested she feels waking up with his hand softly around her waist, of how it calms her to start the day seeing his face. She bites her lip, preventing to let the frustrated sigh escape her mouth, risking to catch his attention. 

She knows what he's doing, though. He thinks he's punishing her, that it's just a question of time until she breaks, and apologises. But she won't. She won't ever. He can keep punishing her with his presence until all seven hells freeze over. If he believes her to have done bad, he needs to come up with something better to punish her. 

The thought of Jon, honourable Jon, teaching her to be good, does things to her she can't explain. Somewhere deep down, hidden, something stirs, and she grunts lightly. It shocks her, and she feels caught when he turns around. She doesn't like either what it does to her belly when his curious dark eyes lie upon her. It's strange, it feels as if a swarm of butterflies lives within her, causing havoc, and that is most troubling. Havoc should not feel so pleasant.

“What's troubling you?” He asks. “Is it the letter you're reading?”

She huffs. She doesn't have the slightest clue what the letter in front of her contains. For all she knows her kingdom could be invaded from all sides, but she's occupied with Jon's moods and what they do to her. Maybe she should command him to leave, she's his queen now, isn't she?

Sansa's stomach clenches uncontrollably just by the thought of him leaving the room. She's aware that she is oddly possessive of Jon, ever since she found him at Castle Black. She hasn't felt anything like it when Arya and Bran have returned, nor now, when they’re gone again. She loves them, she misses them, of course she does, but she hasn't craved their company like she does his. She doesn't like that too.

“Sansa. What are you reading?” He repeats, and she finally turns her attention to the letter.

“Uhm... Oh, just Robin confirming-," she halts abruptly.

“Ah, your cousin Lord Arryn?” She can hear the annoying smirk on his face. “How are the Knights of the Vale faring these days? I still remember their surprise visit so very fondly. I wonder if they...,” he trails off, and chuckles when she can't stop her head from dropping in defeat. “When will they arrive then?”

Damn him! She straightens up, and glares at him. “Robin will just visit us. It's nothing,” she declares sternly. “And it was agreed upon long ago.”

“Isn't it always?” His voice still dripping with fake lightheartedness. 

She wants to swipe the grin from his face. He wouldn't listen! He never does! Not with Ramsey nor with Daenerys, and what else could she have done? All she ever did was to protect him! How dare he now to revel in self-righteousness.

Sudden memories invade her mind, of how sick she felt the day of the battle against Ramsey, how she had to watch Jon in the distance, unfailingly tripping into the trap she warned him about. How he disappeared under a mountain of dead bodies, and how she felt for the blade hidden under her skirt, reassuring herself that she would not have to go back to the monster alive. There was hardly anyone who she despised as Littlefinger, but she could have cried for joy when he came then with his army that brought victory. She has swallowed her pride, all for Jon, for their home, and he blames her for it.

What has he done, she thinks accusingly, to save them? She hates to be reminded of how it was when Jon was gone South the first time. How glad she felt at first when he rode through the gates of Winterfell, and how nauseated when she saw her by his side. How the revulsion hasn't left her all the while she had to tolerate “his Queen” in her home – and in his bed. This shouldn't, she knows, but it matters, and she doesn't like that at all! – How she has wanted to scream when he bestowed his rare smiles on the dragon bitch, how she couldn't stand it even for another moment. 

How dare he revel in self-righteousness!

Something in her snaps loose, and she jumps up and strides towards Jon. He's observing her, still gleeful mockingly, as she hovers over him, hands clasped behind her back and ready to pay back all the pain he has caused.

He glances up and raises his eyebrows, almost in a challenge. She takes it easily, she has spent a year preparing after all. 

“If I hadn't called for his help,” she begins, reigning the fury, before she would unleash it in the right moment. “You would have died, we all would have. I protected you, all of us, because you didn't listen.”

He snorts, and she clenches her fingers tighter. “You didn't tell me that we could have the aid of the Vale. If I had known that, I would have listened. Instead all you've told me was what I already knew. That we didn't have enough men.”

“If I had told you that I have written to Littlefinger, you would have accepted his help? After everything-"

“Why did you write to Littlefinger after everything he has done to you?”

Gods, she does despise him. “What does it matter? He came and we won Winterfell back.” It's such a lame answer she cringes. She needs to take back control. “And I already apologised for not telling you. Don't you remember?”

Sansa remembers every second of it. Winter finally came then, and he had given her the Lord's chamber, because he would never take what he believes he has no right to have. She still feels the warmth of his lips on her cold skin.

“I remember,” he says, his face turned away. Can he still feel her cold skin on his warm lips too? Does he miss it too? He has never kissed her again afterwards, so he most likely doesn't. She doesn't like it. “And I'm not angry about that, and you know it.”

He looks up again, and she sees the torment in his eyes. He hates the truth, she knows, he hates that Ned Stark isn't his to call father anymore. She feels sorry, she does, but she doesn't hate it. She can't, not with all these feelings he's arousing in her. Most of them she can't explain, but she knows they're not proper to have for a brother, half or not. She's relieved, and he is not.

She nods, and says calmly, “I have told Tyrion the truth about you to give the people a better choice, and not just between two evils. Can't you understand that, at least now that Kings Landing burned?”

“I didn't want to be King," he replies, almost childishly stubborn, and her fury returns.

“Gods! Since when is anything about what we want? Were you truly so blinded by her beauty, that you didn't see what was in front of you in plain sight? We all had to pay for your foolishness!”

Ah, she's awoken the wolf, she thinks, as Jon gets up and hisses in her face, “You think me an idiot?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“I did the same as you.”

“The same?”

“You went to Littlefinger knowing we wouldn't have a chance without his help, and I went to Daenerys Targaryen for help against the Others,” he explains as if it was obvious.

“She was a monster, who burned hundreds and thousands-"

“Littlefinger wasn't a monster then? Responsible for the death of hundreds and thousands in the wars he had sparked with his manoeuvres?”

“It's not the same. I knew what I was doing, I knew him! But you trusted-"

He laughs sardonically, and shakes his head vehemently. “Littlefinger sold you to Ramsey, but you still entertained him here under our roof for moons. Listened to his advice, and almost had him succeed in making you believe that Arya wished you harm. Your own sister.”

Sansa hasn't been aware that he knew about that. Of course, she thinks annoyed, Arya must have told her favourite brother all of it, certainly right away. Sansa was mean to me, she can practically hear her whining.

“I didn't give him our home! Our freedom!”

“What have you given him? I always wondered. What have you promised him in return for his aid?”

“It is not the same,” she insists.

“Seems to me though,” he retorts.

Oh, the insolence! She can't contain her fury any longer, and she doesn't wish to. Now is the right time! She has a whole speech in her head, having screamed it at him countless of times while he was gone.

_“Stupid girl that I am, I have defended you again and again, and told everyone that we have to trust you. And then you came home, and I had to bite my lips bloody to not scream at how undeserving you were of my faith after all. You didn't even have the courage to admit that you've bent the knee because you loved her. As if it hadn't been obvious, with you making pleasure rides on her beasts, enjoying the scenery of our beautiful lands, doing gods know what while the rest of us prepared for the war that you have declared to be the ultimate fight for our survival. You've been so devoted to her after having spent a few moons as her prisoner? After she had sent you beyond the Wall on a suicide mission, and then conveniently rescued you oh so heroically? Or because Tyrion and Missandei, or maybe Jorah Mormont have told you what a good queen she was? What reliable sources, truly. I'm surprised that they still knew how to walk upright, with all this pitiful crouching by her feet. Did you never wonder what made the Dothraki leave their lands for her? They only follow the most ruthless warrior. So, clearly, it wasn't her good heart. But you, you gave her all anyway. My home, my freedom, my love. You swore yourself to a monster with a pretty face, and expected me to grovel at her and your feet in gratitude. I would have rather and gladly burned than ever call her ‘My Queen'!”_

And yet, all she screams is “You loved her!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing this story chapter by chapter, with only an idea where I want it to go. So basically, I'm finding it out with you. I hope you're as curious as I am about what will happen next.  
> xoxo


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most likely written too hasty and posted too soon, but here is the next chapter. I hope you still enjoy the story!

Jon feels as if he got hit by lightning, and stumbles back. Her accusation rings in his ears loud and clear, and he understands now. He is such a fool, and he would laugh, if it wouldn't be so sad. Sansa believes that he has left her behind, despite his promise to watch over her, and her warnings that they would lose their freedom, only to prove her right just because he fell in love with Daenerys. Seven Hells, if this were true, he would be the greatest asshole that ever walked the earth.

But he is an asshole all the same, Jon realises. Revelling in his anger and hurt pride, and trying to make her as miserable as he is. It's so petty it's shameful, he thinks as he watches Sansa. She seems surprised at her own words. Her mouth open, her eyes wide, and her cheeks blossoming in a cute shade of red. It awakens something in his stomach, like a jolted swarm of butterflies, flapping their wings restlessly. 

The air is thin suddenly, and dry. He licks his lips, and her gaze drops to his mouth, and he watches mesmerised as her tongue slowly moistens her lips. Breathing gets harder when he remembers the dreams he has of her mouth. Jon takes a step forward and she gasps when she looks up at his face. He wonders what she sees that makes her gulp nervously. Is it obvious what he wants? How unbelievably inopportune, but he still wants to kiss her.

“I didn't,” he starts, and is a bit surprised by the deep of his voice. “I didn't love her.”

Sansa's eyes focus on his, and she quirks her eyebrows. “Don't lie.”

“I'm not. I have made mistakes, plenty, and horrible ones since I've met Daenerys, I admit that. But I never loved her.”

“I saw you with her, I saw-"

“You saw what I wanted her to see. Her support came with strings, and I tried to avoid it. Tried to argue, to make her understand of the danger we were all in, but it was no use. Bend the knee or die, that was the choice. It always has been with her. She would never have come North, if I wouldn't have given her what she wanted. So, I swallowed my pride, and did what I had to.”

For a moment she seems to understand, when she replies, "You manipulated her, after all." But then she shakes her head. “You defended her when Arya and I told you that we didn't trust her.”

He lies his hands on her upper arms, and she tenses a bit. He doesn't like it, takes another step closer, and pulls her towards him in one move. She narrows her eyes, but relaxes instantly when he starts to draw small, soothing, circles with his thumbs.

“By then my plan already went to shit, and she was mistrustful of me, my true name and what it meant to her claim for the throne. And she despised you, and your lack of respect for her. You weren't subtle in your dislike.”

She huffs affronted. “Respect needs to be earned.”

Jon nods, his hands wandering from her shoulders to her elbow and further below. Her clasped hands at her back fall open, and he takes them into his, intertwining their fingers.

“That's true for a lot of things, and by then she had earned my fear. All I wanted was for her to leave Winterfell, and put her on that fucking throne and be done with it. I failed, I know that,” he admits, as he brings their joined hands to his chest, incessantly stroking her silky skin. “But I didn't fail because I loved her.”

She quietly stares at their hands, for seconds or minutes or hours. This is how it's supposed to be, Jon thinks. This is what they should have had for years now, if things would have ever gone his way.

“You were convincing,” she whispers, and Jon inhales deeply. He doesn't want to talk about the past anymore, when all that matters to him is the future, their future. Together, here at home, as it should be. Doesn't she want that too?

Jon pulls her closer still, his cheek grazes hers, and it's so soft, he does it again. “I was until the very end,” he whispers. “Until I pushed the dagger in her heart.” She tightens her fingers around his. “Sansa, I never chose her over you. If I had seen another way, I'd never left you behind.”

She sighs and presses her cheek firmer against his, the tip of her nose stroking the shell of his ear. “I want to believe you,” she murmurs.

He drops her hands to wrap her in a tight embrace, and he wants to cry for joy when she returns it. He has missed their hugs so badly, and to have her this close after so long, it feels as if he has been starving until now without noticing it.

“Believe me, please,” he begs, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the scent that has haunted him for a year. “We're free and home now, at last. You and I, Sansa. We can be happy.”

She hums, almost inaudible, her face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder. “It's all I want. All I ever wanted.”

“You can have it, we both can,” he urges her. “Let us put the past behind. All that matters is now and what's to come, isn't it? We can make it better.”

“No lies? No secrets anymore?”

“Only the truth,” he assures her. “No broken promises either.”

They have talked and laughed then for hours until the sun rose again, Jon remembers fondly a fortnight later, as he stands in front of the mirror in his chamber, and dresses for the feast in honour of Lord Arryn. Sansa's cousin arrived two days prior and Jon has already enough of him and his fellowship who won't leave her even a moment alone.

Just as they have begun to enjoy their lives, free of past burdens, free from new obstacles that the world seems to be keen to throw at them, they get disturbed, Jon thinks miffed, as he fastens the jerkin. Sansa said that they will stay for at least a moon, and that he has to be nice. That is a lot to ask of him. Lord Arryn doesn't seem as sickly anymore as Sansa described him years ago, but he is still just as insolent. The boy truly thinks himself to be a gift from the Gods to humankind, and Jon constantly has to fight the urge to hit some humbleness into him.

Play nice, Jon huffs, as he clasps the cloak around his shoulders and leaves. A moon, he thinks going through the corridors, a moon isn't that long in comparison to the years they have if the Gods are generous. Then again, they never are, and he just can't bring himself to care about diplomatic crises, if it means they can spend their remaining days in peaceful togetherness.

Jon knows that he should control his possessive behaviour. She's the Queen, and she belongs to all the people of the North, he reminds himself as he enters the Great Hall.

The feast is a tedious affair, but at least Sansa enjoys it. She laughs, drinks, and dances extensively, and he likes watching her. Her skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes glitter with joy. Would she look like that in his bed?

Oh, he should not think of that. He can't prevent his dreams, but to think of it while awake and not in his chamber? That's dangerous.

Although, Jon does notice how she looks at him sometimes. Arya most certainly never looked at him like that. It's more similar to the women who have expressed their desire for him, and it lets his mind wander to dark places again. He's aware that he and Sansa often behave on the precipice of impropriety, but they never cross the unspoken line. Obviously, she doesn't want to. Perhaps she isn't even realising it? What if it's all wishful thinking, and he would frighten her if she knew? What if she ever notices and asks him, and he'd have no choice but to tell her? He promised her no more lies and secrets, but what damage could the truth do if she doesn't feel the same? He needs to discipline his thoughts and work on his restraint. She can't know.

Jon sighs frustrated. He has denied a maid this evening, who clearly has been drinking too much of the ale that she's supposed to serve. He wasn't even tempted then, but that was before his mind- He's stronger than this. He was a brother of the Night's Watch after all, he has gone without the touch of a woman for much longer. He rolls his eyes at himself, already knowing how the night will end. Once again with his hand around his shaft, desperately trying not to think of Sansa, and spectacularly failing.

Where is she, he wonders. He stands up and searches the hall but she's nowhere to be seen. She was just dancing, she can't be far, but he still feels panic arise, despite the guards everywhere in Winterfell. He asks around, and after an eternity some giggling young lady tells him that she saw Her Grace go outside.

Jon pushes himself through the crowd, and steps into the yard. It's dark, cold, and quiet, just here and there a few people catching fresh air. He frantically looks around, and then sees her just turning a corner. What the hells is she thinking wandering off alone, he thinks as he runs after her. Is she alone?

“Sansa!” He shouts, and increases his speed. “Sansa!”

He catches up, and immediately scolds her, while gasping for air. “What are you doing out here alone?”

She bursts out laughing, as he bends forward trying to catch his breath. “That's what happens when you ignore the training yard.”

He's not in the mood for jesting. “I would prefer if you wouldn't wander around in the middle of the night. Not with drunk men around.” She sighs dramatically, and he adds “And not when you're drunk.”

She giggles, takes his arm, and drags him with her. She feels uncharacteristically warm, hot really, and Jon remembers the offer he declined earlier. He grunts annoyed. He needs to bring her back, and then go to his room.

She laughs again, and pulls him closer. “Always so serious.”

Jon snorts, but she doesn't know that he has good reasons. Doesn't know where his thoughts are, what he imagines, what he wants-

Sansa halts abruptly. 

“What?”

“Shhh,” she hisses.

His eyes follow hers and he instinctively pulls her against his body, wrapping his arm around her waist, trying to move them away before they get noticed. Across of them stands a man, leaning against a stone wall, with his hands cradling the head of a woman on her knees in front of him, while she sucks his member.

Sansa shouldn't have to see that, but she fights off his attempts to pull her away, and stares, just stares, her face strangely expressionless. Perhaps she fears that the man is forcing himself onto the woman? Jon recognises the maid who offered to do just what they are watching. My mouth is as tight, wet and warm as a cunt, she has whispered in his ear when she refilled his cup, it is yours if you want it.

“Sansa,” he whispers, “Let's go back in.”

She ignores him and takes a step forward, and then another. 

“He doesn't force her.”

“How do you know?”

Jon doesn't want to tell her how he knows, “I just do.”

She stops walking towards them when the maid moans pouting as the cock slips out of her mouth, as if she misses having it there. She eagerly puts it back, taking turns sucking and licking it all the way up and down to his balls. She giggles when the man says, “By the seven, it's so good, such a good mouth. You didn't lie, it’s as warm and wet as a cunt.”

Sansa stumbles back, grabbing Jon's arm, and pulls him with her until they're hidden again in the shadows. Jon feels more and more agitated. He can’t be here watching this with her.

“Please, let's get back,” he tries again, but she just shakes her head. Why?

“You can put it deeper,” the maid says now. “All the way in, I can take it.”

Jon feels his own stirring, watching the man holding her head in place, pushing his cock down her throat, and begins to fuck her in earnest, groaning and moaning like a man possessed. He hasn't known that it is possible to go that deep, and it is fascinating.

He dares to glance at Sansa, who still observes them, the blankness gone, but she doesn't seem worried anymore, or shocked, nor repulsed. She seems- but can it be? She seems to be as curious and intrigued as he is. Which makes Jon wonder things he shouldn't. Would she-

Sansa pants suddenly and he averts his eyes back to the couple. The woman's hands disappeared under her skirts, and she moves up and down, up and down, like she's fucking herself. Jon bites his lip, most certainly bloody. It doesn't take long before the man grunts, and fills her mouth with his seed, which seems to bring her off as well, and then it's over.

Jon is hard in his breeches, and he desperately tries to calm his breathing. He needs to get to his chamber before he does something stupid. Something unforgivable. Something he knows he can't ever have, and he would never take what he has no right to.

She turns and walks away in quick strides. Jon follows numbly, and knows he will be forever haunted by Sansa's look of curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super nervous about this one. This is the smuttiest I have ever written and it's only the beginning. Oh dear, what was I thinking?! So, please let me know your thoughts! xoxo


	5. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, 
> 
> The topic of this story can't ignore Sansa's past, and in this chapter her abuse by Ramsey is mentioned. Not too much, and not too detailed, but still please read with care if this might be a trigger.
> 
> In case you're interested, the soundtrack of this story are the wonderful songs from Agnes Obel. They just get me into the right mood to write this story.
> 
> I hope you like the chapter!

It's snowing, covering the trees and roofs of Winterfell in beautiful, bright white. Sansa loves new snow, it smells and looks clean, just like she prefers things to be. Not many things are though, and most certainly not her thoughts lately. She frowns, standing on the balcony looking down the training yard, where the ground is muddy, and so are the men she's observing. She spends too much time here.

Jon shouldn't be here so often either. She's sure there are things that need to be dealt with, people who are awaiting his decision on something, books that need to be kept. He is running Winterfell now, while she takes care of the matters of the North. She likes it, their reversed roles, and life could finally be as she wished for so long.

It isn't, and it's on her. For two glorious weeks, before the visitors from the Vale arrived, she was happy. The weight on her shoulders lifted as soon as she heard Jon say that he never loved Daenerys Targaryen, and letting go of the past was surprisingly easy afterwards. And then she ruined it.

They haven't fought for weeks now, which is so uncharacteristic, it's exasperating. Instead they're the epitome of politeness, and it's almost laughable. Something is off, she feels it in everything Jon does and says, in the way he looks at her, which happens rarely lately.

Sansa though can't stop looking at Jon. She can't stop thinking of him. She can't stop wishing- he laughs out loud now down there, at something his sparring partner said. They don't laugh together anymore either, they're too busy pretending that they haven't seen what they saw that night.

He's covered in dirt, from head to toe, and it's making her fingers twitch. She's gripping the balustrade tightly, and tries to stop imagining to wash him clean with her own hands.

What was she thinking that night of the feast? Not much, she knows. This is what happens when she's careless, and it's a valuable lesson she has learned years ago, but has ignored all the same. She just wanted to have fun for once, to indulge being young and uninhibited without contemplating every consequence in advance.

And now she's paying the price, once again. Constantly haunted by what she has seen in the dark, the images and sounds follow her everywhere she goes. She wants to blame Jon, but it's not his fault that she was so disturbed from observing the maid leaning over too low to refill his cup, pressing her ample bosom against him, whispering something in his ear. Sansa thinks she knows now what it was, still remembering every word the man has said, "Such a good mouth. You didn't lie, it’s as warm and wet as a cunt." Her heart always drops like a stone into her stomach when she envisions Jon saying it to the maid. How often do women offer themselves like that? It hurts her, but it shouldn't. Jon isn't hers, not like that, and she has no right to be angry that he's the object of others desires.

It's so irrational, it's funny. She has seen at the feast how he rejected the maid, and yet it made her furious, so much so it was dizzying. She shouldn't have wandered off then, Jon was right to scold her. She knows better than to trust men, especially when ale and wine flow in abundance. She wasn't thinking clearly, too busy with pondering ways to punish the maid, to put her to work in the kennels or something. Then Jon came running after her, and her foul mood vanished into thin air. All she wanted was to have him for herself just a little longer, what with Robin and his entourage demanding all her time. Still, she should have followed his attempts to leave when they came across the couple, but all common sense has left her then, and hasn't returned until the morning after when she woke up with a brutal headache. She won't ever drink again, that's for certain, but the damage is done, and now she's caught in some entirely new kind of hell.

She needs to do something about it, otherwise she'll lose her mind, Sansa decides a sennight later. She sits at the hearth in her solar, sewing a new tunic for Jon, who's in the armchair next to her as usual, reading. They're keeping up with their routine, otherwise the pretence that everything is fine wouldn't be very convincing, would it now? It annoys her. For a blink of the eye, it was her favourite part of the day, spending their evenings together, sharing what they've done in the hours before, discussing or laughing, sometimes fighting about this or that. It's torture now, and she's done with it.

“I can't stop thinking about the feast,” she blurts out.

Jon tenses up, and stays quiet for half an eternity, before slowly replying, “It was a nice feast,” his eyes fixed on the book in his hands.

“I can't stop thinking about what we have seen.”

It's like he froze into ice, and Sansa wonders if he hopes that it would pass if he just keeps still, as if she would forget that he's there.

“Have you ever done that?”

The book falls on the floor with a thud as his head snaps up, and he shouts somewhat scandalised, “Sansa!”

“Have you?”

“You can't ask me-"

“But I am.”

He stays quiet, of course, and stares into the fire. She should have made a plan. She should have known that Jon would not be easily swayed to talk about this. Sometimes he's so proper it's cute, and admirable. Brave, gentle and strong, Jon is all of it. 

But that's beside the point. Sansa has questions, and Jon has the answers, she is sure.

“She seemed to like it.” 

At least he's looking at her again. “What?”

Turns out it is easier to say what she wants when he isn't. She glances at and fumbles with the half-finished tunic lying in her lap. “Women talk, you know, and I have heard some things in the years, but I used to think it's all lies that they tell to hide the horrible truth that it's really only nice for men.”

She hears an angry snarl, and watches out of the corner of her eye how his fists clench around the armrests. It reminds her of how they have beaten Ramsey's face like a hammer raining down on an anvil, blood splashing everywhere, teeth and bones cracking.

Jon's hands are marvellous. So strong and violent, but soft and so tender when they touch her. She never feels safer but when his hands and arms are around her. Nothing is as wonderful as when he hugs her. How must it feel then if he touches her elsewhere? 

“Sansa, what Ramsey did-"

She doesn't want to talk, nor even think of that monster. “Is not normal, yes, I know. But what they have done there, the maid, she truly enjoyed it. And I'm...,” she trails off, and takes a deep breath. “So, have you done this?”

His throat bobs as he gulps, once, twice, and his eyes wander nervously around to anything but her. It's an easy question, isn't it?

“Please, Jon,” she begs. 

As the silence stretches, she begins to wonder if she truly wants to hear his answer. Yes, she needs to know if women really enjoy acts like that. Because she hadn't. It was horrible, she was so panicked that she would suffocate, that this was how Ramsey would kill her. When watching the couple though, it seemed as if it was something entirely different, most notably because of the joy the maid has expressed. Sansa can't forget how the hands of the woman moved under her skirts.

To a certain degree, Sansa knows that women can experience some kind of pleasure. There were a few times when she had felt something potentially exciting between her legs. But then the curiosity has been beaten out of her and she has ignored any signs of its existing. Was she wrong? What if they weren't telling lies and it is something great after all? What if she misses out? She needs to know.

One the other hand, does she really need to know if Jon has done that? Does she truly want to hear him elaborating how whoever – the dragon bitch most likely, Sansa thinks and wants to throw the unfinished tunic in the fire – has enjoyed licking and sucking Jon as much as the maid had?

Sansa knows of at least two women that Jon has laid with, but there were certainly more. He's a beautiful man, and she sees every day how wanton eyes follow him. Surely, he's not rejecting them all? Even though he has said that no one has shared his bed in his hut, that doesn't mean that he hasn't shared somebody else's, she guesses and doesn't like it.

He rubs his hands over his face and sighs defeated. No, she doesn't want to know after all. “You don't have-"

But he is already shaking his head, and whispers, “No.”

The relieved breath she hasn't noticed she was holding, leaves her lungs. “Daenerys and Ygritte, they haven't-"

“No,” he states firm, hoping that she would finally drop the topic. She won't, she still has questions.

“It's not something that couples usually do, then?”

“I don't know.”

“But aren't all men-"

“Sansa. I don't know what all men do or want. Neither do I know much about women.”

She snorts. “I don't believe that. I see how they look at you. I'm sure they'd do anything you want.”

He's annoyed now, and leans forward, when he states, “I am not lying, Sansa. No lies, no secrets anymore, you know that. If you ask me something, I tell the truth. Even if your questions are uncomfortable and inappropriate. What would Septa Mor-”

“Septa Mordane taught me that it's my duty to spread my legs whenever my husband demands it, to do with me whatever he wishes, as if I am just existing to be used for his pleasure. I couldn't care less what she would think.”

She is as surprised and shocked as he is at the harshness of her voice, and the contempt she feels towards the elder lady, and everyone who has lied to her when she was young. Fooling her with fairy tales of honourable men, leaving her entirely unprepared for the horrors she has faced in the years past. They don't get to judge her.

She inhales deeply, and calmly repeats once more, hoping that he would finally understand what she is trying to say. “I can't stop thinking about that she liked it so much.”

Jon doesn't get it, she can see the confusion in his face. Why can't she just say what's on her mind for weeks now, day and night? It's infuriating. “Do you understand?”

He thinks, his wrinkled forehead evidence. Perhaps he truly has been with only two women, but he must still know some things he could show her. “Jon. I can't stop thinking about how she liked it so much.” She sounds as if she is speaking to a child, emphasising every word. This isn't going at all how she wanted it. Then again, she should have made a plan. This is what happens when she doesn't prepare. 

She stares hard at him, willing him to understand what she is saying, asking really, without having to do it in words. He must know. There were moments they've shared, moments when they were so, too close to be entirely innocent. When his eyes turned deep black, she felt as if they swallow her whole, making her weak in the knees and light-headed. He must know.

And then he does. His eyes widen and darken at the same moment, he inhales sharply, and then bites his lip as a low grunt escapes. Her heart stops, only to start beating as if she's on the run as she observes his reaction. He's surprised, yes, but not repulsed, not at all. Will he do what she wants?

Sansa feels unsettled suddenly, nervous, afraid even, and she averts her eyes. It's too much now. Why? She wants to know. She wants him to- what exactly? She only ever has vague ideas, fantasies of things she might like, mostly she knows what she doesn't want.

“You have to say it, Sansa,” Jon says, the deep timbre of his voice vibrates through her and wrecks her nerves even more. But she's brave, she won't be ruled by the past and her fears, she thinks determined and glances back at him. His eyes have softened, and he smiles a little. She knows better than to think it's meant to be encouraging. 

Damn. Her mouth stays shut, and she hates the pitying look he gives her, when he leans to her. She hates his hands taking hers softly, stroking soothingly. “If you can't say it, you may not really want it.”

But she does! “I-... I...," she stutters pathetically.

She wants to cry when Jon brings her hand to his mouth and kisses it lightly. It's the sweetest thing he has ever done. His thumb strokes over the back of her hand a few times, before he says, “We should rest, it was a long day.”

He lies her hand back in her lap, so carefully as if he's scared she might break, before he stands up and walks to the door. Sansa loves and hates it.

“I will be ready,” she exclaims, before he opens the door. “I will be ready to say it, to ask. What will your answer be?”

He halfway turns his head, but keeps his eyes on the floor, gripping the handle tightly, and says nothing. Does that mean he will say no? Or yes? Or that he doesn't know?

“Prepare yourself to give me an answer when I ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the aftermath of Jon and Sansa's foray into voyeurism... at least part 1. Are you still there with me and interested to read Jon's POV next?
> 
> Be safe! ❤


	6. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

Jon lies in his bed, wide awake, and watches the flickering shadows on the ceiling. The fire has almost died, only a few weak flames still providing some warmth and light. Ghost snores in front of the hearth, his belly full of the deer he hunted today, and his front paws protecting his new favourite bone from said prey. He's as content as a direwolf can be, and Jon is envious. Yes, he's home, at last, always warm and never hungry. He's the Lord of Winterfell, admired and respected, and enjoys a peaceful life with his Queen of love and beauty in homely togetherness. He chuckles humourless.

Jon is living a nightmare that looks like a fairy tale. Since that damned night in her solar, he feels as if he's walking on thin ice, always on the verge of breaking through and drowning. He's exhausted, he just wants to rest. But she's everywhere and all he sees, and he can't stop looking. Always waiting and worrying that she would ask him what she couldn't then. 

Naively, he thought that he has hit rock bottom the days and weeks after the feast. He could scarcely glance at her for fear that she may see what he has her do when he strokes himself to completion. The evenings spent in her solar a special kind of torture, with her so close and her scent so inviting, so enticing, all the while he pretended that everything's splendid.

In comparison, it was, until he learned that she's as affected by what they've seen as he is, and that she believes he has the answers to her questions. She's not ready, he saw the doubt, fear even, in her face, but she has been thinking about it. She has been thinking about it! It changed everything, and now Jon knows how hard hitting the rock bottom truly feels like.

The days are bad, though duty offers at least some distraction, but the nights. Oh, the nights. Jon hasn't slept in ages, never more than a few hours here and there, until he wakes up sweating. His mind never slowing down, always conjuring up new images of what Sansa might want him to show her. He would make it so good for her, he'd prepare her first with his tongue and fingers, until she writhes and moans, calls his name, begging him to fill her, and he'd be tender and slow when he would. He’s hard again, it's happening as quickly these days as when he was a green boy, and he spills just as fast in his hands. 

It's pathetic, he thinks, and grunts annoyed when he grabs the handkerchief that lies on the bed table, it's already filthy from earlier. Sansa sews tunics and breeches and whatnot, and it's wonderful, it is, but he has need of more handkerchiefs. He can't ask, she'd want to know why. He can't tell her that he has to wash them almost daily, hidden from the servants. She'd most likely worry that he got sick.

He is, in a way. It's been three weeks, and besides a few looks here and there, she has said nothing, hasn't asked, hasn't mentioned it again. It's fine, he tells himself, but it's not, and he's ashamed. Sansa isn't ready, and she might never be, so he better gets his shit together. It's not about him anyway, she'd only ask because she doesn't trust anyone else. He doesn't know what she has experienced, but he has heard rapists share their stories at Castle Black, and it makes him want to vomit. He can't even imagine the pain she has endured. And yet, while he wanted to flee and disappear after they've killed him, to leave everything and everyone behind to get warm, she wanted to fight back. She's so much stronger, so much braver, unbroken. Perhaps a little fissure here and there, but he has been smashed to smithers, and parts got lost when he was brought back. Sansa doesn't let her fears rule her, she fights and fights and never tires. 

He gets up, washes his hands, and then searches for a clean shirt. It's funny, really, and he laughs at himself. As a boy he refrained from taking himself in hand too often, only to prove that bastards aren't commanded by their baser urges. All of his curiosity was smothered by his fear of fulfilling people's expectations. Now that it's common knowledge who he really is, he seems to make up for lost time and opportunities.

There isn't much he could show Sansa that he has experienced himself, he thinks as he crawls back into his bed. He has been with two women, and beside that time in the cave, he has only laid with Ygritte under the furs with a sleeping audience not far away. With Daenerys he hasn't put much effort into it. Enough to make it all right for her, he guesses. She didn't complain, and she certainly would have if he'd failed to please her. All he pretty much knows is where to put it, but Jon has ideas. He finds what they have witnessed intriguing, and yes, he would like to find out how it feels. Though, only if Sansa would enjoy it like the maid had, which he doubts. He will never understand how men take their pleasure in utter ignorance of the woman's they're taking it from. He has heard countless men bragging about what great lovers they'd be, but mostly they talked about how hard they came, but not if the woman did too. Jon recalls how Ygritte lost it when he kissed her between the legs. It has been a stroke of genius, truly, and there is nothing he wants more than to make and see Sansa come undone like that. All she needs to do is ask.

He doesn't have to prepare to answer, he knows what it will be. Alas, it won't be what he should say. Robb and Ned, they would expect him to make sure that all her wishes and hopes get fulfilled. She deserves a noble and kind man, with the right name and reputation, who treats her well and gives her children. Someone brave, gentle and strong, all that he isn't. He's supposed to protect her from the lecherous eyes of men that follow her everywhere she goes, and not be one of them. She isn't his, he reminds himself, but it still gets worse with every day, and Jon needs to be careful. It's difficult with no sleep, and he wants to strike down every man who dares to simply look at Sansa. All of them do, all the time. The thought of others wanting her like he does, that they think of the same things he has on his mind, sparks his fury, and makes his fingers twitch around the pommel of his sword. It's probably a bad idea carrying Longclaw with him at all times now.

Be careful what you wish for, he thinks and wants to scream. All he ever wanted was to be good and honourable, someone Robb would be proud to call brother and Ned Stark to call son. Most of his life he's been determined to prove that bastards aren't soiled by blood. He isn't a bastard after all, but that truth wasn't the relief he would have expected, at all. Now he's determined to prove that he isn't mad and doesn't want to fuck his sister. He's failing, clearly and spectacularly.

Jon tosses and turns, but sleep won't come. He is mad, he knows. He wants her so bad it hurts. It feels like hunger, a searing pain, like he's starving if he doesn't nurture his desires. He can't live like that for much longer. She needs to find someone who isn't obsessed with all she does and says, who doesn't want to keep her at his side at all times out of fear that she gets snatched away. Something is wrong with him, he knew that as soon as he woke up on the bier. He shouldn't be here, but he held it together for his family, for the North, for Westeros. But now, now there's no battle to plan, no foe to defeat, there is nothing that keeps him from spiralling down further and further into abyss.

The fire dies and the chamber succumb into darkness. How fitting, he thinks and snorts. He has done what's right, what's expected of him all his life, he can do it again. Just one more time. She won't ask, he knows, and it's better this way. She deserves a good and healthy man, a husband, and she will find one. He'll make sure that she's happy and safe, and then he'll leave, back to his hut, where the fish jump into his bucket out of its own volition. Where life was simple and carefree.

Ghost wakes up suddenly, raises his head and cocks his ear. Something's off, Jon thinks when his wolf pads to the door and starts to sniff. He is about to push himself up, when the door opens and Sansa sneaks in. She pants surprised and stumbles backwards a little when Ghost greets her. Jon closes his eyes, and wills his heart to slow down. He needs to be strong. She doesn't know that his desire for her has no boundaries, she doesn't know what kind of beast he'll become if she'd let him touch her. Worse, he doesn't know either.

Jon prays to Gods he doesn't truly believe in anymore for strength. Eyes open again, he watches her bending down to stroke Ghost's head a few times. She whispers “Good boy", and Jon knows he's lost when he wishes she would call him that. He bites his lip, hard.

Sansa turns away from Ghost, and just a few steps later stands in front of the bed, glancing down at him. She looks ethereal in the dark, only illuminated by the weak moonlight, in her white nightdress and her long hair falling down over her shoulders. Jon thinks of a faerie.

Their eyes meet and a small smile forms on her lips. He inhales deep, and with releasing the air he also lets go off all his good intentions. No one else will ever have her. She is his, and his alone. All she needs to do is ask, and he will devote his life to make her feel so good, she won't ever want another man near her. He'll be her good boy.

She shivers and crosses her arms over her chest. She must be cold, so he skids back to make room for her. She climbs under his furs, and sighs pleased as she lies her head down on the pillow, so close he feels the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

“I'm ready,” she says, voice low and calm. “Are you?”

“Aye.”

The small smile grows a little, and Jon can't help but to hold his breath when she says, “I want to know how it should truly be when a man and woman are together. Will you show me? Will you show me what pleasure feels like?”

He sighs with a smile. “Yes.”

They look at each other as if it's for the first time, and perhaps it is. 

“It will change everything,” Jon whispers. “You know that, do you?”

She nods. “You've said it yourself. You and I. We can be happy. We can make it better. Isn't this what you truly meant?” She smiles teasingly, and he wants to show her what happens when she stirs the beast. He grunts, and she snickers. 

“Sansa."

“You're good in hiding what you feel, what you want. Always so stoic and brooding, but lately you were quite obvious.”

“I haven't slept in weeks.”

She hums in understanding. They fall silent, and let their eyes roam over their faces. It's so warm, so quiet, so peaceful, lying here with Sansa in his bed feels surreal and familiar at the same time. It's like a dream come true, but they never do, so perhaps he has fallen asleep after all?

“I'm not ready to do what they have done,” she says, and carefully watches his reaction. He wants to reply that he'll only ever do what she's ready for, but she continues. “I'm not ready to... to...”

“Sansa. If you can't say it, we won't do it. That's the rule.”

The smile instantly returns. “We can have rules?”

He chuckles. “You like that, don't you?”

She nods. “I have to say first what I want. And if I change my mind-"

“Then we'll stop, anytime. You need to trust me.”

“You're the only one I trust, Jon. You know that.”

He does, which is why she's here in the first place. If she'd have faith in any other man, she wouldn't be asking him. Her own brother- no, cousin. But who would care for the distinction? Not Robb, nor Ned, most certainly not Lady Stark. He's sure she would prefer him to be Ned's bastard than Sansa's cousin who's free to touch her. Jon finds he doesn't care that much right now. Brother, cousin, all the same, as long as she's with him.

He coughs. “Are there any other rules?”

“No lies, no secrets, no broken promises.”

“Only the truth.”

“Only the truth,” she mumbles as her eyes drop to his mouth. 

Time moves at a snail's pace as he waits. She has to say it.

“Jon. I want to kiss you.”

The butterflies in his belly run havoc, his heart pounds hard and faster and faster as she slowly leans in. She halts, and Jon tries not to be disappointed, at least not to show it. If Sansa changes her mind, he will accept it. That's the rule, and he won't break his promise the first chance he gets.

“Do you want me to?”

He nods, but she smirks. “You have to say it.”

“I want you to kiss me, Sansa,” he stops before he can say ‘please'.

Jon touches heaven when their lips meet. Her mouth brushes chastely over his, testing, but soon she presses harder, lets her soft lips glide over his, and then she moans lightly, almost not there. But he heard it, his whole body has, and he needs to stay calm.

It's difficult, more so when her fingertips begin to fondle his face, while she pushes him slightly down, and hovers over him. She angles her head to deepen the kiss. She's taking control, and Jon loves it. He grips the sheets, and refrains from grabbing her head, from letting his hands run through her hair, from pulling her on top of him, as he yearns to do. 

She moans again, louder and longer, and Jon grows hotter by each second at this kiss so ardently longed for, and before so peremptorily denied. He wants to taste her, he needs to, he's almost desperate, and can't resist to let the tip of his tongue find the seam of her lips when she parts them. She inhales surprised and stills. Damn it. So soon, too soon.

Jon's a lucky bastard tonight. She mimics it, and he groans. Slowly, carefully, she searches his with hers, and when their tongues find each other a rush of shivers runs through him. She sneaks her hand around his neck, and pushes herself harder against him, with a groan so deep, it sends a wave of lust down to his groin.

Hot blood rushing through his veins, his pulse racing, his fingers clutching the sheets for dear life, he kisses her harder, deeper, more frantic. Sansa eagerly takes part, with her hand holding his head firmly in place, and her tongue exploring with uninhibited fieriness. 

His lungs burn, but he ignores it. Just a little longer, just a little more. She hums and giggles into his mouth when he chases hers, not willing to let her go yet. Alas, they do need air, and they part. She falls back on the pillow, breathing in deep sharp rasps, her eyes shining in the dark with desire and glee, her prettily swollen lips smiling.

Jon grins, and maybe he's a fool, but he has taken a peek into paradise, where only he and Sansa exist, and he thinks that this is what happiness feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super nervous about this chapter, and I hope so much that it didn't disappoint. 
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	7. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: "Trial Run"...

Time's a fickle thing. Sometimes it moves blazingly fast, sometimes sluggishly slow. Right now agonisingly the latter, as Sansa sits on her bed waiting for the castle to fall into slumber. Perhaps they're overcautious, no one else is occupying a bedchamber in the Great Keep besides her and Jon, but still. She can't be caught sneaking into his in the middle of the night, they can't be caught doing what they do behind those doors.

Her fingertips touch her lips, missing his so much it's worrisome. Sansa's obsessed with his mouth, so alluringly full, warm and soft. She spends half her days reminiscing about what marvellous sensations go through her when he kisses her, wondering what else he could make her feel, and counting the hours until he can show her in their own little paradise that is Jon's bed.

Alas, they haven't been there for days now, falling asleep while waiting, waking up with the sunrise, and with everyone else in Winterfell. They're never kissing outside his chamber, and never during the day. They have duties to fulfil, a kingdom to run, and it's already difficult to keep a clear head as it is.

Sansa forgets the world when they kiss, when their tongues dance with each other, when his beard tickles pleasantly, when his warmth envelopes her in placid comfort. It could be so perfect, but sometimes the peace in paradise gets disturbed, and she loathes it. Every so often, when his hands move, and he doesn't even grope her harshly like she's known men to do, only moving a little over her shoulders, or tightening his fingers a bit on her arms, she tenses up. She loves his moans and groans, it's the most beautiful song in her ears, but still it happens, and she could scream in frustration.

“I'm part of you now,” she still hears Ramsey's voice in her head, dripping with malicious glee. Jon always stops and removes his hands immediately. She doesn't want him to, has said so, repeatedly, despite her body's clear dissent. She won't ever accept it, she won't ever allow that monster to have any control, and in her anger, she once told Jon to simply ignore her body's resistance, and she'll get used to it eventually.

It was the wrong thing to say, she knew the second the words left her mouth, kicking them out of paradise so quickly and hard, she worried the gates have shut for all times. Jon skid away from her, eyes wide, and glowing with hurt, accusing her of believing him capable of ignoring her discomfort. She burst out in tears, shocking Jon even more. Miserably sobbing, she apologised, told him about Ramsey's last words, and Jon, wonderful Jon, asked if he can hug her, and she just cried harder. She fell into his arms, clutching at his tunic and ruining it with her tears, while he whispered soothingly in her ear. Assuring her that she'll be ready one day, and promising her that until then he will keep his hands off her when they kiss.

Of course, Sansa thinks now, turned on and impatient. He's Jon, always understanding and perfect, so what does he know? She doesn't want his hands off her, she wants them on her. She's obsessed with his hands. They're just so incredible, even only to look at. Strong and sure, yes, but also gentle. They are covered in scars, evidence of the battles he had to survive to be here, and to her those beautiful hands mean home, protection and love.

Love. Once Sansa thought she knew what it is, but she was young and stupid, and didn't know shit. It has taken an embarrassing amount of time until she figured out the confusing feelings, but now she knows. She's in love, and it's amazing. It feels like walking on clouds, like flying among the stars, like falling onto the softest cushions of velvet. It lets her hope for a life filled with happiness. 

Happiness though, is a capricious thing just as the cursed time is that simply won't pass. Sansa grunts annoyed as she hears a servant walking through the hallway outside her chamber. She's been ridiculous happy lately, it's an enormous effort to keep her face queenly, and to suppress the dumb smile that apparently has no intention to leave of its own then. “You and I. We can be happy. We can make it better,” Jon has said, and sometimes she thinks she knows what he meant, but then he does or says something, or just looks a certain way, and she wonders what he truly feels. Sometimes it smothers the flame of happiness within a second.

Jon wants her, that is obvious. Want and love are not the same, though. Men want women all the time without caring a damn about them. The brothels would have no visitors otherwise, and she knows it's a very profitable business. They collect their taxes after all. But no, Jon isn't like those who take pleasure wherever they can find it, she knows that. After all, he rejects offers to put it into willing mouths, for free. She also knows he cares for her deeply, like no one else ever before, and he loves her, just maybe not in the same way. Or maybe he does? Jon is not one to share much, his mind and soul always retreating into a place where he lets no one in, and she often wishes she could take a peek.

Oh, but then, then he gifts her one of his precious smiles, and the flame of happiness grows into a blazing fire once more. Life's so wonderful when Jon smiles at Sansa. Like earlier today, when she crossed his path wandering around aimlessly, trying to figure out a way to get Jon's hands on her without running scared. She stopped short at the sight of him, and within split seconds her heart raced, her face heated up, and her lady parts clenched curiously. This is what he does in his spare time? She thought numbly, mesmerised as she watched him helping the carpenter with something that required energetically hitting nails with a hammer into some wood. He told her that he built his hut and furniture beyond the Wall himself, but it's something entirely different to see it. It's a spectacle. Sweaty and grimy, covered in sprinkles of dirt all over, and she fantasised once again of putting Jon into a bath to rub him clean with her own hands.

One of these days, she will do exactly that, she thought dreamily, and just like that she knew how to chase away the shadows of the past. How the monster will disappear forever, and instead of solidifying like a statue whenever his hands move a fucking inch, she will be melting away by his touch.

Tonight, she thinks now, pressing her ear against the door to hear if, finally, all is quiet. Tonight's the night, and her stomach flutters in anticipation when she sneaks out, and hurries through the hall, trying to not trip on her nightshift, until she halts in front of his door and opens it quietly.

Jon stands by the window, cleaned up, dressed in breeches and tunic, and deep in thought. Sansa instantly wonders what about. It's curious that it seems to be most interesting to her, she can't count how often she has stopped herself from asking “What are you thinking?”. Jon doesn't share his thoughts much either, just like he doesn't share the secrets of his heart. She closes the door a tad too loud with the expected effect. He startles and turns, a smile appearing on his face when he sees her.

She walks to the side of the bed, straightens up a little and declares, “I want you to tell me what you want to do with your hands when we kiss.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Tell you?”

“Yes. We lie on the bed, no kissing, no touching, just talking.”

When he understands what she wants, his face turns a pretty shade of red. “I think about it,” she admits, grinning when his eyes widen. “Don't you?” He gulps and nods. “So, tell me what you think.”

“You...,” he clears his throat. “think it'll help?”

“It's about expectations. It's the not knowing what will happen that scares me. If you tell me, I won't be surprised.”

It's as simple as that, she thinks, and after a moment, he comes to the same conclusion. “All right.” 

They make themselves comfortable on the bed as they always do, both lying on their sides, facing each other, but this time with plenty room between them.

“Do you want to lie under the furs?” He asks when she shivers a little.

It's not the cold, it's never cold when she's with Jon. “No, I'm warm.” It's that stupid hope and happiness again. Her plan seemed fool proof in her head, but is it? She sighs and whispers, “What if I'm too broken, too damaged?”

“You're not,” he replies without hesitation. 

“You don't know that.”

“I do,” and he smiles so brilliantly that she can't help but to believe it, too.

“The rules are clear?”

He chuckles, “Aye. No kissing, no touching, just talking.”

“Well then, I'm listening,” she says, and Jon laughs out loud. He so rarely does, it's a shame. 

They fall silent, and his eyes wander over her face down her body. At last, he inhales deeply, and whispers, “Close your eyes.”

Darkness shrouds her, and she hears the sounds around her heightened. The sizzle of the fire, the crackling of the wood, the rustling of the wind outside, until everything fades into nothingness and all that remains is Jon's voice.

“It's a night like this, silent, like we're alone, like we're the only ones on earth,” he begins. He speaks slow, as if searching for words, and soft, as if not to disturb the peace in paradise. “We lie in my bed, and you kiss me. We're not in a hurry, we have all the time in the world. My hand is on your shoulder, and it goes down your back, and up again... We kiss harder now, just a bit, and I splay my hand to pull you closer to me, just a little... We need air, unfortunately-“

They giggle, both knowing that they always wait until breathlessness becomes severely critical before parting.

“Go on,” she whispers, eagerly absorbing every word, every sound he makes.

“I kiss you up to your ear, and my hand on your back moves to your hip. I... I suck on your earlobe, how you like it.”

“Hmmm," she hums. She loves it when he nibbles there, it shoots a tingling all the way down to her toes, and out of its own, her hand takes her earlobe between forefinger and thumb, rolling it back and forth, pressing a little here and there. She can almost feel his mouth, his tongue, and the swarm of butterflies in her belly wakes up.

“My hand wanders up again, my fingertips following your spine, and... and it's like a prickle but good. You like it, and... then I let it run through your hair.”

“Are you still kissing my earlobe?”

“No... I'm kissing you down...” He pauses when Sansa trails her fingers along her neck, and when they reach the hollow of her throat, he says, “there.”

“I make little circles with my tongue... Yes, like that,” he whispers when she mimics his words with her finger, imagining him touching her. She moans, and again when she hears a low grunt. To know that he's watching her, that he tells her what to do, it's wondrously exciting.

“What do you do next?” 

“I find the collar of your nightdress,” and so does Sansa's hand. “I pull at it, just a little... A little more... Hmmm,” he sighs. “I kiss you there. Your skin is so soft, and I want... I want...”

“What? What do you want, Jon?”

“I want to feel more of it, and I glide my hand under the fabric... just over your breast...” His breath hitches as her hand half disappears under her nightshift to caress her cleavage.

“My mouth takes my hand's place, kissing you there, and I put it back on your shoulder, moving down your arm... Lower,” he instructs, voice deeper and surer now, and Sansa follows. When she reaches her hip, he says, “I grip the nightdress and pull it up... Up... Over your knees.” She does as he wishes, and fiddles with the fabric, waiting for him to continue, but Jon's quiet. All she hears is his hard breathing, and she's tempted to take a glance at him.

But then he commands, “Lie on your back,” and Sansa immediately lets herself fall on the mattress.

“Seven hells,” he mumbles. “So good.” 

She almost whimpers.

“I grab your upper thigh... Bend it... My fingers find the back of your knee, where the skin is soft and tingly... Yes, there... My other hand drags the nightdress over your shoulder... More... Please...”

Jon doesn't have to beg, she'll do anything he asks to be praised again. She reveals her shoulder and her cleavage, pulling the fabric as low as it gets without ripping, while her other hand still strokes the hollow of her knee. 

“You're doing so good,” he whispers, and she shudders at the peculiar thrill between her legs. 

“You like this,” he says, intrigued. “Don't you? Tell me.”

“I do,” she answers in a rush. “Jon, I like it.”

He groans, and she hears him moving beside her, his voice nearer now. “Touch... touch your breast.” Her back arches a little, thinking it Jon's hand. “Let your thumb glide over it.” And Sansa fondles her nipple, back and forth, again and again. “Is it... Tell me, is it hard?”

“Yes,” she whimpers. 

“Good. Do you like it?”

“Hmmm,” she hums. “But... But I want...”

“What do you want?”

She's fidgety and needy. “More.”

It's Jon now who whimpers, and his voice reflects the urgency she feels. “Keep doing that, play with your teat... The hand on your knee, move it up... Higher... No, not there.”

She slides her hand over her leg and hip, skilfully ignoring the place where he wants it. She wants to hear him say it. “Where, Jon?”

He hisses, perhaps knowing what she's doing. Certainly, she thinks dazed, when his next words are said in his kingly voice, brooking no dissent, and she finds she loves it. “Pull your nightdress up, bend your knees, and touch yourself between your legs.”

Sansa squirms. She wants to look at him, but at the same time, she never wants to open her eyes again. It’s like she's floating out of time and space, simply being Jon's perfect little lady. She almost weeps for joy when she cups her most private parts.

Jon growls. “Tell me,” he says, voice so hoarse and deep, her cunt quivers. “Your smallclothes, are they moist?”

She nods, and he rasps, “Put your hand under them.”

She jumps from the sensation as she touches her folds, wet with the fluids of her arousal. She has never felt something like that, it's so intense, she impulsively presses her legs together.

“No. Keep them open,” Jon demands, and she spreads them without thinking. “Sansa, you're so good... Yes, keep moving like that... Up and down... Have you found the spot? Where it feels nice for you?”

Oh, that, Sansa remembers what Margaery has told her once, about it being the centre of the universe if handled right. She never had the desire to search for its mysterious pleasures, but now she craves nothing else. Her hips leave the mattress when her fingers find the little nub. “Oh!”

“Aye, that's it.” Jon says, and she hears the smirk on his face. “Rub it.”

She brushes over it, again and again, while Jon murmurs encouragements, “Yes, like that... So good... Faster now...” And she does as told, until she’s panting and writhing, more restless with every second.

“Faster... Press harder... More, Sansa... More!”

Her hand frenetically rubs, up and down, then in circles, and she moans, and grunts, and whines relieved when she finds the right rhythm. Something's happening, and she's frantically wishing for it, but some part worries that it may be too much, too overpowering. Could it? 

“Let it happen, Sansa. Don't think, let go,” he commands, and she cries out, her muscles jerking and going into spasms as her first orgasm sweeps through her.

“Don't stop,” Jon calls out. “Don't stop!”

She keeps going, until the pleasure becomes too much to bear. “I can't... Jon...,” she whimpers, but not slowing down, not until he tells her that she can. “Please, I can't anymore.”

He growls, almost howls, and then presses out, “Aye, stop.”

Sansa stills, her body completely slacking. She has never felt so good, dizzy, exhausted but so satisfied. She catches her breath and slowly opens her eyes again. Her legs wide open, her nightdress crumbled around her waist, one hand groping her breast, the other still under her smallclothes. It's shocking, but she's proud and so, so happy. Beaming brightly, she turns around to Jon. 

The smile dies quickly. He lies on his stomach, head resting on his arm, hand gripping the pillow, the other a fist at his mouth, so tight his knuckles are white, and his eyes pitch black. She can't avert her eyes from him as she wipes her fingers on her nightshift, and Jon snarls, sucking in a deep breath. He looks like a beast, a wolf on the prowl, his gaze so piercing she shivers.

“Go to sleep now,” he gnarls, and she can almost hear his self-restraint shouting at her. Run and flee.

Fascinating images of entangled bodies flood her mind, and she bites her lip as she nods. It's for the best. She feels drained, amazing, but very sleepy. 

“We'll talk tomorrow,” she murmurs as she gets out of the bed, and stumbles on weak legs to the door. She absentmindedly notices a thud, some commotion when she grips the handle. The next moment Jon's behind her, not touching her, as is the rule for tonight, but he's so close, she feels his hot breath on her neck, and her whole body responds.

“The coming nights, I want you to touch yourself like that. You think of me, my mouth, my tongue, my hands, my fingers. Again and again, however long it takes, until you're ready to feel them on you.”

Sansa puts her hands against the door to hold herself up, lest she goes down. She thinks she just peaked a little from his voice and words alone.

“Will you do that?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Honestly, I have no freaking clue anymore if this is any good or not. I've read it countless times, edited here and there and again and again... and now I just thought, what the hell, just get it out there! Lol. 
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	8. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a walk on a sunny day in spring...

Spring is in the air, Jon thinks as he steps out the Great Keep, looking around the yard full of people bustling, chatting, here and there laughing or shouting. It's a nice day, and yet it's not. They're at odds, and Jon doesn't really know why, only apparently, it's his fault and he has to atone for his existence. They got along so well lately, he almost forgot what it's like when they fight, until Sansa reminded him with vigour this morning.

She pointed out at breakfast that they have neglected their people a bit in the last couple of weeks, and so today they'd do a round of visits to pay their respects for all their hard labour. Jon hasn't been too thrilled about the timing. There's a rocking chair waiting in the carpenter's workshop to be finished, he told her, and he wants to ride into the Wolfswood with Ghost, perhaps hunting a little and collecting some herbs or berries, as he liked to do beyond the Wall.

Why, Jon has no fucking clue, but her gaze turned icy, and she declared that it wasn't an invitation. Besides, she chided, he shouldn't ever forget that it's the Northerners he has to thank for his life. They could've easily chosen to not forgive him for not only throwing himself and his crown, but also their freedom in the dirt. Has he forgotten his own lecture about due gratitude? No worry though, Sansa sneered, she remembers every single word he has ever said about all the appreciation and worship that the Dragon Bitch so deserved.

Things could have turned ugly then, or much better, depending on if she would have let him shut her infuriating mouth with his, right on the breakfast table, between bread, cheese, and the wrong pie. Alas, he'll never know, as just that moment servants entered, prompting Sansa to hurry off after instructing him to be ready in an hour.

So, here they are now, a picture perfect of unity and harmony. At least spring is truly coming, Jon thinks, taking a deep breath. Since he left home as a boy, head full of horseshit and believing himself an aspiring hero, he has lived in winter, even when he was in the south. Always cold, always harsh, always forbidding, spring and summer a faint memory.

Not always though, he remembers as they pass the training yard on the way to the stables. Jon has never felt cold on the battlefield, and not only because of the exertion. He frowns, he doesn't like to think of it, of the nagging feeling that too often bothers him lately, as if something's missing. He should be grateful. He has a good life, he should revel in it for however long it lasts before it'll be wrenched away, and not try to find something to grouse about. Sometimes Jon wonders from whom he inherited the need to brood over simply everything.

He fakes a smile when they meet with the master of horse, and is glad that Sansa does the talking. He knows little about Lyanna Stark, and sometimes Jon thinks of writing Bran, voyeur extraordinaire. But then, what is there to know besides that she ran away with a married man, the crown prince of the Mad King no less, and still believed she'd have a happy ending? Perhaps he's unfair, the times were different, and if she grew up like Sansa and Arya, she probably believed in stupid tales, only to learn too late that it's all lies. No, only Rhaegar Targaryen is to blame, who apparently sang songs, and preferred the harp to the sword, most likely bewitching Lyanna with honeyed words and empty promises, giving a damn about the collateral damage his desires caused. Who would Jon be if Rhaegar would've lived? Good riddance.

They leave the stables and continue their walk, and Jon acknowledges that for once the Gods were kind by sparing him the pain of recognising similarities between himself and this man he refuses to call father. Ned Stark was his father, but that thought opens a whole other can of worms, so he'd do good to not delve into that now, or ever. Anyway, he looks and sounds of the North, and it's laughable to picture himself with a harp, let alone singing. Sansa would run screaming if he'd try to court her with a pretty song. He suppresses a chuckle and sighs. He really should pay attention to whatever Sansa is discussing with the blacksmith, he reprimands himself. What does he even know about courting and pretty things? He can count on his fingers the girls he has spoken more than two sentences with, and what he and Ygritte had isn't exactly useful as reference for romancing a lady, a queen.

“Are you missing the ‘true' North that much that you can’t even pretend to be interested in your people?” Sansa hisses, grabbing his arm, and dragging him along with her.

Why now would he miss the true North? Jon has things on his mind that he needs to think over, again, and he told her so at breakfast! In a way, but that's beside the point. He told her it's not the right time, she ignored it, and now she's pissed.

“You do more damage than good like this,” she declares, and pulls him up the stairs leading to the battlements.

“Shouldn't you already know that it's what I’m really good at?” he mumbles behind her.

She turns on her heels, and looks daggers at him. “Are we Poor Jon today? Wallowing in self-pity because the past is a rotten thing biting your ass? And oh! Let us not forget the insolence of the cook to mess up the pie you like so much.”

Jon snorts, and averts his eyes. He shouldn't have made such a fuss, it's just pie, but still. At that moment it seemed to be another thing that he yearns to taste, but just isn't allowed to.

“Get over it,” she orders as she continues to climb the stairs.

“Get over it? You brought up the past! You know why I did all of that then, and I thought we're over it. Obviously only when it suits you.”

“Just shut up.”

“Aye, my queen.”

She swings around, the anger radiating off her as hot like a burning flame, and he thinks she might slap him. It's a shame that he finds it exhilarating. So, he walks past her, and she snarls as she follows. Sometimes, when they're like this, he wonders if it wouldn't be sensible if they'd just go their own way, until they calm down. But they hardly ever do the sensible thing, and so they let their rage, pain, and hurt run free as if there would be no tomorrow.

For so long Jon only ever felt truly alive, when he had to fight for staying it. He doesn't like killing, doesn't look for it, yet, he can't deny the exciting rush of standing tall between the corpses of his enemies. It's that ecstasy he misses, he realises as he throws a look at her. He doesn't need the frenzy of a battle anymore, when he has Sansa heating his blood until it boils over.

Sansa doesn't want to be courted, she just wants to learn about pleasure, that's all and that's good. He doesn't have to be skilled in poetry, music or whatever, he just needs to make her feel good. Like that night, even without touching her once, she came undone only by his words. Maybe he's a poet after all?

His penis stirs. He huffs under his breath at the inconvenience, and slows his steps to walk behind her. That night was the best and the worst. Sansa learned what it feels like to peak, and he learned a new lesson in desperation. He believed himself used to a life of unfulfilled desires, but he knew truly nothing. He never wanted anything as despaired as Sansa then. To have the images burned into his mind of her shaking in pleasure, without knowing what it's like to feel her under his hands, around his cock, is agony.

Jon rubs his face with a sigh. Sansa is right, he's insufferable lately. He's neglecting his duties, he throws tantrums like a spoiled child, and grunts at everyone who isn't fast enough to hide from his ire. All because Sansa doesn't kiss him anymore. He hasn’t meant that she only should come to his chamber again when she’s ready for his touch, but she must think that, he assumes. He spends too much of his time pondering if he could or should invite her. Would that be too needy, or worse, pressuring? Perhaps she just doesn't want to? She certainly doesn't want to right now.

Poor Jon, he mimics her voice in his head, always sulking and never happy. Seven hells yes, because it's difficult to enjoy a good life when the source of one’s happiness makes it so testing. She suddenly halts, causing him to quickly step to the side, bumping his shoulder against the stone wall lest he bumps into her. Sansa though, blissfully ignorant of his pain, calmly looks into the distance. Jon suppresses a humourless chuckle. How fitting.

Her anger seems gone, but it's anyone's guess how she's feeling now. No one is as skilled as she to hide herself in plain sight. He'll always be the fool who wears his heart and soul on his sleeve. If he isn't pondering about how to get her to kiss him, he tries to solve the mystery that is Sansa. What is she thinking? What is she feeling? What does she want? What does she wish for? What does she dream of? He could ask, and she'd be bound to tell as they've promised, but then he'd have to live with the truth, and that never worked in his favour. So, he doesn't and drives himself mad.

“This is where we jumped,” she says, pushing herself up on her tiptoes to bend over the wall. Jon does the same and follows her gaze to the deep ground. “I'm still surprised that we got away with only some bruises. Who knew that a heap of snow can soften a fall like that?”

Jon thinks that Sansa and Theon expected to die, but they still jumped, because death was the better alternative. He hopes that sick fuck has suffered as worse as possible when his hounds ripped him apart.

She straightens up, and breathes in the air of spring. “So much has happened since then, but I still dream of it so often,” she wonders. “Sometimes, I stand right here and I hear your voice, telling me to find you. Sometimes, I get to Castle Black and you wait at the gate, as if you knew I was coming.” She smiles a little for a split second, before her face clouds the next. “But sometimes I arrive and they tell me that you're dead. You lie there and I scream at you to wake up, but you won't. You just won't.”

“Sansa,” he whispers, and carefully grazes her hand with the tip of his little finger. He doesn't want to think about what would've happened to her if Melisandre would've failed. 

“Sometimes though, you just left the Wall, and then I look for you. I run and run, searching everywhere, even as far as Dragonstone, and I shout your name, but all I hear is my own voice echoing, like a taunt.”

He intertwines their little fingers, remembering that he was just packing his few belongings when she arrived. An hour later, perhaps two, and he would've been gone.

“When I wake up, I go to your chamber,” she says low, as if she shares a secret. “To make sure you're still here.”

It's so adorable, he can't help but to reach out his free hand to stroke a lose tendril of hair from her cheek with his thumb. She turns to him with that rare smile on her lips, her eyes shine at him as bright as the sun, and his heart swells. When Sansa smiles at Jon, he feels like the greatest hero that ever lived.

“Do you know that you snore?”

“What?”

“It's a strange noise. More a whistle. And you're doing a thing with your hand.”

“A thing?”

“Yes, like this.” She raises her hand, shuts her eyes, and trails her fingertips aimlessly over the face. “It's as if you want to scratch yourself, or something. Do you dream of your face tingling?”

He shakes his head. Apparently, he looks like a moron when he sleeps. Isn't that grand?

“It's cute.”

“Cute?” He'd prefer that she finds him handsome, strong and brave. “It's not proper to sneak into my room to watch me sleep.”

Sansa bursts out laughing. “Proper? When have I last sneaked into your room to do something proper?” 

Jon gasps for air like a dying fish, until he realises that this may be the opportunity to finally get the answers to his burning questions. Lightly caressing the palm of her hand with his fingertips, he smiles and softly says, “I rather be awake when you visit me at night.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and flutters her eyelashes. “I rather want that too,” she replies coyly, gripping his hand, and then releases a melodramatic sigh. “But I just don't have the heart to wake you, when you look so cute.”

Cute or handsome, what's the difference anyway? “Hmmm,” Jon hums, taking a step closer. “So, you have a lot of time alone in your bed then, haven't you?” Her face reddens deliciously, and he leans forward, murmuring into her ear, “Are you doing what I've told you to do?” 

Sansa gulps, eyes widening, but she catches herself impressively quick. “You know I promised, and I'm always striving to be a perfect lady. A good girl, who does as she's told. Are you proud of me?”

His heart jumps, and so does his interested cock. “I am very proud of you,” he croaks, and clears his throat. “Do you think of only me?”

She pouts, and purrs, “Of course.” She smiles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Or else, I'd be a bad girl, wouldn't I?”

“Gods damn,” Jon hisses, and gets closer, lightly pressing against her. “Please,” he begs without exactly knowing what for.

She shakes her head, lies her hands against his chest and pushes him away. “Language, Jon,” she scolds, and then snickers at his dumbstruck face.

He needs a moment to collect himself, and runs his hands over his face. It's only a blink of an eye later, but when he looks at her again, all the merriment is gone. Instinctively Jon takes another step back. 

“I like what we're doing, but,” Sansa pauses, her eyes darting to anywhere but him.

“But?”

A shadow passes over her face, and she inhales deeply. “I like being good, I like being told that I am, but where's praise there's usually also punishment, and I don't want that.”

Punishment? As if he could ever, and he's about to ask if she doesn't trust him at all, but then halts before the words can leave his stupid mouth. She tells him, because she does. He's such a moron sometimes, he thinks as he sees the unease in her eyes.

“Sansa. You can be good or bad or whatever you wish to be, I won't ever do anything you don't like. If the rule is that you need to say what you want, it's even more true for what you don't want.”

A relieved and grateful smile hushes over her face, and Jon hates all men. She shouldn't feel relief and gratitude simply because he accepts her boundaries, and it's moments like these, when she allows him a glimpse into the depth of her fear, that fuel his hatred. Against the dead, who were responsible for her pain, and against the living, who dare to gape at her with their wretched eyes. 

Jon's rage doesn't change anything, though, and it doesn't help Sansa either. So, he looks up into the blue sky, and takes a few breaths. He can't be so selfish. He can't go on obsessing about her, making it all about himself, when it's really all about her.

“If you want to stop doing this, we can. You know that, don't you? Anytime.”

She takes his hand again. “I know, but it's not that,” she says, intertwining their fingers. “When I asked you, I thought to have a fairly good idea what to expect, but it's so different. It's like we play a game.” She heaves a breath, clutching his hand. “You're nothing like them. I told you, you're as far from Joffrey as anyone I've ever met, and the same is true for Ramsey, Littlefinger, whatever their names. But all of them liked games, too.”

It's her own rage now that shows in her face, her voice, and words. “I hate it. I hate that they're still in my head. I hate that I still have their marks on me. I hate them. But I lo-" she halts, shakes her head and presses her lips together tightly. “But I like what we're doing, and I don't want to stop. Do you?”

“No.”

She squeezes his hand before letting it go, “Good.” And as if never gone, her merriment is back the next moment. "It'll be a shame if all my efforts would go to waste, wouldn't it?"

Jon groans, and Sansa chuckles, as they finally continue their walk, silently enjoying the warmth of the spring sun, and stopping here and there to observe the people down below.

Where's praise, there's punishment. True words, and intriguing words, Jon muses. He yearned his whole life for praise, to be told that he's good and not just a rotten bastard. How often has he felt punished simply for his existence, and how often has he lashed out at those who hurt him? He can’t remember. But never at the one who made him suffer the most, he thinks, while watching Sansa from the corner of his eye. She looks so much like her mother, everyone says so, but to Jon it’s only a shallow similarity. Sansa's eyes are always full of affection, even when she’s angry at him. The handful of times Lady Stark graced him with acknowledging his presence, all he ever saw was utter disdain.

Yes, yes, it must have been difficult to accept that Ned paraded his bastard son around for all to see, but a five-year-old just doesn't give a damn about the reasons of adults. A five-year-old cries lonely tears because no one would hug him after he chafed his knees bloody when he fell, while his brother and sister always got coddled as if they were on the brink of dying from a little scratch.

The truth is a strange thing, Jon finds. He despises it for many reasons, but it's also freeing, very much so. Said sister, Lady Stark's precious daughter, now spends her nights playing with her cunt to prepare herself to welcome the worthless bastard in her bed. It's wrong, vicious really, but all the same, it's glorious. How would Sansa react if she knew what's on his mind, he wonders, and that's where it gets intriguing. He can already see her, hear her shouting at his outrageous audacity, perhaps she'd be so furious this time, she'd truly slap him, or demands that he atones in some other ways for his sins. What other ways?

Jon grabs Sansa's arm and motions her to follow him into a corner, hiding them from the guards’ curious eyes they just passed.

“You can punish me,” he says, voice deep and low, and her eyes widen in bewilderment. “When I displease you, you could tell me what to do, you know, as redemption.”

He waits, and bites his bottom lip, but then glittering eyes glance at him with interested curiosity. “I see," she murmurs, and breaks out in a wicked grin. “Have you been bad, Jon?”

“You've no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the response for the last chapter! Every kudos and comment is so encouraging, it really keeps me going to write this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	9. Sansa

Looking out the window in her solar, Sansa can't remember when she last saw Winterfell so bright like this. The melting snow dripping in little trickles everywhere, glistering brilliantly in the sun. If the weather keeps, as Maester Wolkan says, the North will soon beautifully blossom once again, from the Neck to the Wall. Spring is truly coming, and after the burdens of winter, its sunshine and warmth gets everyone into a tizzy, it seems. She sees giggling girls and boys everywhere, hiding in corners, and even the grown ones behave like fools. The maester calls it spring fever, and Sansa is certain she caught it, too.

Why else would she have allowed them to be so careless on the battlements today, acting as if they're the only people far and wide? Sansa closes her eyes and massages her temples. Jon will be her undoing, she knows it. How can one person be the sweetest and the most insufferable, sometimes within a few minutes? Is he also afflicted with spring fever?

Resting her head against the window, Sansa groans. Since that night Jon made her feel so good with only his magical words, she wakes up elated, and feels wonderfully light like a breezing leaf in the wind. It's adorable how he asks every morning how she slept, with red cheeks, and a shy smile on his lips, but a curious glimmer in his eyes, and Sansa thinks he truly wants to know if she's a good girl and does as told. She wants to grab that pretty face and kiss him stupid. And then he says something, and she falls back on the ground like a stone, wanting to scream in his stupid face to just shut it.

Jon always tested her patience like no other, and they have fought and argued countless times, but lately he's been especially trying. No wonder she's so inattentive, and perhaps a little testy at times. This sulking and bitchery, about all nothingnesses and a damn pie! Maybe it's in his blood, she sometimes muses, maybe it just comes with being a prince, and a Targaryen prince no less. He certainly inherited all what's good from his mother, and all the idiocy from that man, she knows he refuses to call father. Luckily, ice is much more persistent than fire.

At least she had the mind to not say that out loud this morning, when she finally lost her nerves, the familiar anger rising as fast as a sneeze, without a chance to contain it. He would've run to some hidey-hole to brood forever. Though, bringing up the past wasn't that much better either. He's right, they are over it, and it's not fair to throw it in his face whenever she's pissed. She doesn't even want to think of all the terrible things, and least of Daenerys Targaryen. 

It's strange, but Sansa doesn't mind knowing about the wildling girl he loved and who died in his arms as well, if not by his hands. She even finds it tragically romantic, like a tale from the books she loved when she was young. But to think of him with Daenerys, is something entirely different. She believes that he hasn't loved her, that he used her to defeat the Others, that he feared her and only tried to appease her. Sansa has sworn her never-ending devotion to Joffrey countless times after all, while fantasizing about ways to rid the world of that monster. And yet, when she thinks of Jon kissing and holding her, of smiling at her, of his voice whispering into her ear, to think that the dragon bitch felt what Sansa feels when she's with Jon, it boils her blood from uninhibited jealousy.

They haven't kissed in too long, and Sansa misses it badly. How close he stood today, his scent dizzying, his dark eyes pleading, and his deep voice so desperate. For a moment she was tempted to grab him by the cloak, press him against the wall and devour him right there. Oh, how she loves their games. Not ever has she imagined that to learn about pleasure could be like this, and they've just begun. Sansa wants to know more, she wants to know all. 

Alas, greed led to recklessness, and now they played a little in the open under the bright spring sun. That makes it difficult to pretend that if it's only happening in the dark, it's not happening at all. A queasy feeling grows in Sansa's stomach. She doesn't have a clue how many guards were on the battlements with them, she doesn't know what they have seen, she doesn't know what they have heard, because she didn't pay any attention. And now, now she needs to prepare for the unfortunate event that someone saw them and accurately concluded what's going on between the Queen and the Lord of Winterfell. It will spread like wildfire, a castle is like a tea party where everyone gossips about everyone. And when Winterfell knows, it won't take long for the rest of the North, all of Westeros, the whole world to know. 

She groans, and starts pacing around. Now she understands why her father didn't even tell her mother the truth about Jon. Ned Stark was much smarter than anyone gave him credit for, Sansa thinks proudly. He pulled one of the greatest treasonous hush-ups in recent history, and if his own son wouldn't have become some mystical know-it-all, most likely no one would've ever found out. That's how it's done right. If you want a secret to stay a secret you trust no one, and you keep your fucking mouth shut and your bloody hands to yourself, regardless of how skilfully the temptation tantalises you to succumb!

The world isn't supposed to know that Sansa Stark shares the furs with her brother. They're not doing that, yet, and Jon is not her brother, but will the world care? She rubs her face vigorous, and muses if this isn't an opportune moment to crawl into her bed and cry. It's a disaster, how could she let this happen? Sneak into Jon's chambers when everyone sleeps, and leave before everyone wakes, and no one will know the difference, it's as simple as it can be.

Sansa falls with a moan into the chair in front of the vanity table, and trails the fine lines on her forehead with her fingertips, that now look like deep valleys of worry. She's surprised, she believed herself smarter, believed that she learned her lessons from the past, but in truth she's still a dumb girl who pretends the world to be as she wishes. Ignorance is bliss, they say, but only until it kicks you painfully in the ass. She rests her face in her hands, and breathes slow and deep. There's only one way the world will react. The world will despise her, will think her the worst person that ever lived, and the world has a face and a name: Arya.

Sansa stands up to open the window. She needs air. Arya will never accept them. Jon is her brother, just as Robb, Bran and Rickon, just as she is her sister, and that will never change. Worse even, Jon is her favourite, while Sansa certainly isn't, despite their improved relationship after that debacle with Littlefinger. She can already hear her sister's accusations of never having loved Jon as a brother, believing herself too posh for their likes, but now that he's a prince, she's suddenly in love with him? So typical, she'd say, and then Sansa would admit that she fell in love with Jon even before she knew the truth, proving that she's indeed just as rotten as Cersei Lannister. What would father think, mother, Robb? Arya would then ask, and Sansa would answer in her rage that she wouldn't know because they all lost their heads, so who gives a fuck? Jon would, naturally. If the mention of Ned wouldn't throw him in an existential crisis of unknown proportion, Robb certainly would. He'd be ashamed, and would blame himself. So, he would do what he thinks is right. He'd leave Winterfell to go back to his stupid hut in the stupid ‘true' North, and spend his time in the stupid woods with picking stupid berries.

Sansa chuckles sardonically. What is wrong with her? Arya is still sailing around the world, as Bran informs her regularly in his letters, and who knows when she'll come back. Her sister really isn't the most pressing concern she should have, it's literally everyone else in the North, especially those who have made their interest in joining their House with hers known.

They have accepted Jon as Lord of Winterfell, they respect him still, and after that incident with the stable boy – which, of course, travelled all the way to the remotest corners of her kingdom – they call him Lord Jon now, not Lord Snow, and most certainly not Lord Targaryen. They don't call him Lord Stark either, because that would risk unwanted implications regarding the inheritance of Winterfell and the crown, her crown. She's the Stark, not Jon. How will they react if they knew that she favours him, diminishing their chances to become the Queen's consort? How fast would they remember what they've so graciously ignored so far? How fast would they call him Aegon Targaryen the sixth of his name, the one who knelt to another Targaryen invader? How fast would they accuse him of seducing his sister as is the Targaryen way? How fast would they call for his head?

All of a sudden, the anxiety vanishes, and is replaced with an almost eerie calm. This Sansa knows, this is what she has trained for in the many horrid years past. “Don’t fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before.” Petyr Baelish was a poisonous snake, but that was good advice. 

Sansa is fairly certain that she can convince the northern lords to accept her and Jon, it's not without risks, but with enough time and good preparation, it's doable. She knows better than to follow Cersei and Jamie Lannister’s example to try to keep it a secret, with all evil means necessary. Besides, it's not the same anyway. Neither are they married to other people, nor are they truly siblings. In comparison to them, Sansa and Jon aren't even faced with a true challenge, she just has to be smart about it. Once the gossip starts, there is no turning back, and she will have to act quickly. Assumptions can be just as harmful as lies and truths, but assumptions can be manipulated to their favour much easier.

She hates it though, to think that Jon would marry her only to protect her, only for political reasons, and not because he is as madly in love with her like she is with him. She snorts, as she throws herself on the bed, thinking of that moment earlier on the battlements. Well, the next time she's about to blurt her heart's secrets out, maybe she just should and then she'll finally know if he feels the same. Sansa groans, and rolls on her stomach.

It knocks at the door, and Sansa wants to scream. But maybe it's Jon? If he is, she'll ask him right now. Enough time has been wasted. She's the damn queen, she has no time to play He loves me, he loves me not... for all eternity. 

Straightening up, she calls, “Come in!”

It's her handmaid. “Your Grace, they're awaiting you in the Great Hall. Do you wish for my assistance?”

Seven Hells, she completely forgot! Since they failed today to pay their respects to their hardworking people, and because she was in such a great mood when they came down from the battlements, she spontaneously invited them to a joint dinner. She truly must have a bad case of spring fever, Sansa thinks annoyed. With the help of her handmaid, she changes into a new dress and fixes her hair, and puts on a fake merry smile.

Some hours later Sansa crawls exhausted into bed, at last. The kitchen staff really has outdone themselves preparing something so fine on such short notice, and everyone enjoyed the evening, even Jon. Everyone, but her. First, she busily tried to find out if the gossiping about them has already started. Luckily, it has not, but it didn't take long for her to kind of wish that it has. How else would all these wanton maids finally refrain from goggling at and pressing their tits in Jon's face, and offering him who knows what unseemly things? As if that wasn't distracting enough, Jon himself went out of his way to mess up her mind further. Deep in conversation with the carpenter and the blacksmith about building his stupid hut up there, he has called out at some point, laughing heartily, “You wouldn't believe how bad I was!” 

It's so pathetic, she grunts staring at the ceiling over her bed, but her ears perked up like those of a wolf puppy that just understands the word “treat", and all she did from then on was staring at Jon, yearning for said treat and brooding. She snorts, he really rubs off on her. Then again, what else is she supposed to do but to mull over what he has said on their walk earlier, when he really wasn't very specific? What did he mean, that she'd have no idea what a bad boy he is? And what kind of redemption is he thinking of? So, she sat there, daydreaming about punishing Jon, dampening her smallclothes in the middle of the jolly crowd. Gods damn, indeed. He will be her undoing, there's no doubt.

Shifting a little to remove the smallclothes, Sansa slides her hand between her legs. She has been a very good and obedient girl. Not one night passed without her playing with herself thinking of Jon's hands, fingers, mouth, and tongue, sometimes more than once. But tonight, he won't tell her what a perfect little lady she is. No, tonight she will tell a misbehaving Jon what to do with those hands and mouth to make good for being such a pain.

It's morning, and they're sitting at the breakfast table in perfect harmony. But then Jon takes a bite of the pie. His face scrunches up and he starts to grouse about how it tastes wrong, how it's not the pie he wanted, and he goes on and on. Until Sansa jumps up from the chair and shouts, “Enough! Is this how you've been raised? To be ungrateful when so many are hungry? You're a bad boy!” Jon looks up at her with his dark eyes, burning with inappropriate defiance. “Do you need to be taught a lesson in gratitude?” She asks, and the next she sees behind her closed eyes is Jon nibbling and sucking on her earlobe, while his hand furiously rubs her wet pussy under her skirts.

Sansa circles her nub relentlessly, mimicking Jon’s movements in her mind, pleasant tingles shoot through her, and she knows she's close. But then, out of the blue, she finds it somewhat unsatisfactory, and halts. It's nice enough, yes, and she learned a lot about her own body by pleasuring herself. She knows what she likes, finds the right places and the right rhythm quickly now, and it opened her mind to other things she wants, as well. Last night she boldly entered herself with a finger, and imagined Jon lying on top of her. He hasn't even touched her yet, not properly at least, but it's the first time Sansa fantasized so lively about lying with him, and it was so good. She came so fast and hard, wondering how much better it must feel when it's not her finger, but Jon who's inside her.

Sitting up in her bed now, she studies her slim finger. It felt already filling, so how can Jon even fit in without it hurting? She knows that not all men are the same, but all are most likely larger and thicker than her finger. How big is Jon's cock? How does he look naked? She has seen him in the training yard more often than she can count, she has seen him fight in real battle, she has seen him in the carpenter's workshop, his tunic deliciously clinging to his body while he hammered nails into wood. He's strong, she knows, and her cunt clenches familiar when she remembers how wonderfully hard his muscled arms and shoulders feel under her hands. He must look magnificent. 

Sansa is done with worrying about looming scandals, done with only ever imagining things but never feeling them, done with always preparing but never taking what she wants, done with faking the real thing, when the real thing sleeps just a few doors down the hall. 

She jumps out of her bed, pauses, but then foregoes her smallclothes. Tonight, they can both be bad in paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. No smut... but I think it's pretty obvious what will happen in the next chapter... about 3000 words of it.
> 
> Regarding Arya. I don't want to spoil my own story, but just to be clear, I am not a fan of Arya and Sansa being "enemies". I love them both. And should Arya return, no one will threaten anyone with ripping their faces off in this story, as they wanted us to believe in S7 (honestly, such convincing storytelling, no?...).
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	10. Jon

Sitting by the hearth late at night, the book he's reading forgotten in his lap, Jon muses about bad deeds and punishments. Sansa looked exhausted when they said goodnight after the unexpectedly jolly impromptu feast, and he should be ashamed to get hard like valyrian steel from imagining ways to defile her, to corrupt the innocence of his good girl, who now certainly lies in peaceful slumber in her bed, dreaming of pretty things. Indeed, such insolence needs to be punished, so Jon relaxes against the cushion, fumbles with the laces of his breeches, and pulls his cock out. He ignores the book falling to the floor, shuts his eyes and begins to stroke himself.

In broad daylight, Sansa marches into his chamber, wearing a green dress, her red hair flowing freely, the crown on top of it. She frowns deeply at him, and berates, “I believe you need to be taught how to pay respect to your queen.” Eagerly, Jon drops to his knees. “Forgive me, Your Grace.” It quickly escalates from then on, because he is no man of patience, and soon he grunts, as Queen Sansa digs her fingernails in his scalp to keep his face buried between her legs, loudly moaning his name as he does his amends by worshipping her cunt.

“I hope you're thinking of me,” Queen Sansa suddenly says, and it doesn't make any sense. So, he keeps pleasuring her with his mouth, and himself with his hand. “I see, you prefer to be alone then.”

Startled, Jon's eyes snap open. His heart begins to race, and his member softens like a withering flower as he stares at Sansa standing beside the armchair, glancing down at him with her hands folded at her back.

“Fuck.”

“That's not a word suitable for the ears of a lady.”

Jon whimpers, as she lowers her gaze to his crotch. “And that's not how you should present yourself in front of one,” she smirks. At last, he has the mind to cover himself, but she grabs his shoulder, and Jon stills. “You haven't answered. Were you thinking of me?” Her eyes gleam when he nods, but she raises her eyebrows and asks scolding, “This is what you have me do in that... dirty mind of yours?” His cock rises instantly, and the hand around it tightens of its own. He hisses, and she sucks in a breath. “Go on, finish what you've started.”

Jon hesitates, not entirely sure how to cope with the sudden dreamlike situation, and watches dumbstruck as Sansa leisurely sits down on the armrest. An enticing scent fills his nose, and he sniffs like a damn wolf smelling prey. “You watched me too,” she says, almost casually, as if it wouldn't be as remarkable as it truly is. 

She has a point though, and Jon pumps once, twice, finding the rhythm quickly. Sansa croons encouragingly, eyes glimmering with curiosity, observing every move he makes. 

“Will it fit in me?”

It's an utterly overwhelming question. All his blood rushes into his member swelling it bigger and bigger, he grunts almost pained as his balls tighten, and then sinks his teeth deep into his bottom lip, coming so hard his seed spouts like a fountain.

Spent, his head falls back, and he squeezes his eyes shut. His mind is fuzzy, his heart pounds, his lungs desperate for air.

“That was fast,” Sansa notices accurately, and clearly amused. 

Jon snorts, and opens his eyes. “That happens when good girls ask questions only bad girls ask.”

She shrugs, and then says, voice deep and eyes so black, only thin blue rings frame her pupils, “That's quite the mess you made. Look how... filthy you are.”

“I am,” he sighs guiltily, putting his cock away and wiping his hand on the breeches. “Tell me what to do to make good.”

Shaking her head, she bends down with a mischievous smile and whispers conspiratorially into his ear, “I wouldn't know, because I've been bad, too.” She hums wondering, “Can we both be bad?”

“We can be anything we like. It's our game.” She beams so bright, as if he promised her lemon cake in the middle of winter. “What are the rules for tonight?”

“I want you to touch me, like you've told me that other night. And I want to know what's on your dirty mind. Maybe we're not doing all of it, yet, but I like to hear it.”

Yet. One little word so full of meaning, of hope. But then he remembers all the filthy ideas he had earlier, heating his face and ears when he imagines saying them out loud. No, he's not ready to share all his fantasies, yet. “I tell you some.”

“Only some?”

“Some.”

She nods, and her eyelashes flutter cutely, contradicting her next words. “Do you want to know my dirty mind, too?”

“Oh Gods, yes. Tell me all.”

Sansa chuckles, and taps his shoulder lightly. “Would that be fair, though?” She asks with a shake of her head. “I tell you some,” she declares and then, grabbing his face in both her hands, she leans forward, touching the tip of his nose with hers. “But first, kiss me.”

It's been too long, and sounds of passion and joy fill the room quickly. Jon brackets her face in his hands, guides her mouth open and deepens the kiss, until their tongues and breath mingle. Her hands move around his neck and shoulders, and softly moaning, she slides from the armrest onto his lap.

Shifting a little, she rests comfortably on his thighs. “What you told me, about the prickle on my back. Do that,” she orders, and the familiar thrill shoots through Jon. He complies obediently, one hand holding her around the waist, the other following her spine, up and down. She shivers. “Kiss my earlobe,” she rasps, before taking his between her lips.

They take turns nibbling, suckling and licking the soft skin of their earlobes, making them squirm incessantly, and Jon thinks that perhaps they should move to the bed. The thought is quickly forgotten when she starts to suck and lick the tingly place right below his ear, so restless she sure leaves a bruise.

“Sansa,” he groans. 

“It's called a lovebite,” she murmurs, her nails digging into his shoulders, as she raises her head to inspect her work. 

She smiles pleased and it sets Jon off. He grabs her slender but yielding body, and she squeals in surprise and delight, when he moulds it against his. One hand on her back, the other buried in her lush hair, he kisses her again, hard, frantic. Her excitement rises higher and higher, just as his, he can feel it on her lips, can taste it on her tongue. Frenzy.

They need air, and he lets his mouth wander down her neck, his tongue circling the hollow of her throat. She yanks his hair a little, it stings, he loves it.

“Do you like it? When I do that?”

Jon grunts his answer, running his fingers along the neckline of her nightshift, exposing as much skin as he can. His head dips to her cleavage, tongue snaking out to caress the valley between her breasts, and she almost painfully rips at his hair. 

He hums delighted, “Like that.”

Sansa repeats it, arching her back, and mewls, “Touch them.”

Softly he caresses the swell of her breasts, before he cups them in his palms. They feel heavenly. “Have you imagined my hands when you played with them?”

“My hands were your hands, all the time,” she purrs, and pushes against them. He takes encouragement from it, gently kneading her soft flesh, before his thumbs glide over her covered nipples, teasing, lightly pinching, until they rise harder. “But yours feel so much better.”

That deserves a reward, Jon finds, and bends down to press a kiss right above where his thumb is flicking over her bud. 

“I want to feast on your teats.”

She hisses, pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and squirms on his legs. Jon believes he can feel her wetness dampening his breeches through her nightdress and smallclothes. Good Gods. 

“Do that then.”

He inhales deeply, and wraps his mouth around her nipple. Hands holding the soft weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing lightly, as his tongue takes one slow lap. It's not enough. Not nearly enough.

“I want to see them,” he grunts, pulling greedily at the fabric.

She thinks about it, hands running laggard through his hair, down his neck to his chest. “Will you show me yours, too?”

“I don't have pretty teats.”

“You do, just much smaller, but even with nipples. Have you ever wondered why? What could they possibly be good for?”

“I have no idea,” he laughs. 

“Show me yours, and I show you mine,” she offers.

Jon's about to rip his tunic off, but then remembers what she'll also see then, and realises, surprised, that he feels unsure about it. He doesn't mind all the others that he got in the years, but those are different. Those aren’t evidence of the sad truth that he lives a borrowed life he has no right to. “The scars, they're...”

“Oh,” Sansa exhales, and envelopes him in a tight hug. “You think I'll find them ugly?”

He nods, and she turns her head and nuzzles into his cheek, before pressing a peck on it, and then another on his chin, and another on his mouth, before moving to the other side peppering him with more kisses, and Jon has never felt so cared for, so loved. But then, with a last one on his lips, she stands up. That's not at all what he wanted. “Please don't-"

“It's all right,” she says, gripping the seam of her nightshift. “I show you mine, and when you're ready, you can show me yours,” she declares with such confidence that his insecurity vanishes into thin air.

She begins to ruck up the garment, but Jon grips her arm. “We do it together then,” he says, unlaces his tunic, and pulls it over his head, just as she drops the nightdress on the floor.

It's a sight to behold. She looks like a nymph, too beautiful for mere human eyes, he thinks as his slowly wander from her face, to her bosom, down to-

She wears no smallclothes. His mouth drops open as he stares, struck by lightning. He sees a shimmer of moisture, and he slowly licks his lips.

She giggles, “You're drooling.”

Hells yes, she's the most delicious thing he's ever seen, and he wants to devour her in one piece. “You're beautiful,” he croaks hoarsely. 

She smiles brilliantly, goggling him. “So are you. You're so very handsome.”

He has been called a pretty boy many times, but for the first time he really likes it. Someday, he'll tell her how often she has saved him, how grateful he is for simply her existence, games or no games.

“Do you want to stop to play, Jon? We can, anytime.”

Shaking his head, he smiles up at her. “We've only just begun,” he says, and leans forward to place his hands on her hips. “I want to make you feel good.”

She steps closer. “I was a very good girl and prepared myself for your hands, fingers, mouth and tongue.”

He moans, and pulls at her. “But good girls,” his eyes on the soft red curls framing her cunt, “Good girls, don't run around so shameless.”

She sighs. “I know, but you see,” she begins as she climbs back into his lap, sitting sideways, her legs dangling over the armrest facing the hearth. Her breasts pressing against his chest, and Jon wonders if he might lose his sanity tonight. It's all right, he doesn't need to be sane when he has Sansa in his arms. “I was in my bed already and played with myself thinking of you, but it just wasn't enough anymore.”

His fingers dig into the flesh of her waist, and he snarls. “Not enough?”

“No, and I just felt so...,” she pauses, while her hands begin to explore the contours of his bare chest.

“How did you feel?”

“Impatient,” she says, and it sounds like a song in Jon's ears. “So, I left them in my bed, and came to you.” He thinks he might come again right then, and bucks his groin against the back of her thigh, groaning while she inhales surprised from feeling his hardness. “I told you, I've been bad,” she whispers, smiling, almost proud. “Like you.”

“We fit like wax, then,” he mumbles, his hand slowly trailing up to the side of her breast. She hums pleased as he strokes the soft weight, letting his thumb glide over her pretty nipples. He'll starve if he doesn't get them into his mouth soon. So, he bends his head, raises his eyes to hers, and flicks over the hardened bud with the tip of his tongue.

Soon, he fervently licks, sucks and swirls over each nipple, and Sansa quivers harder and pants louder with every swipe, her fingers digging into his back, the other hand tightly wound in his hair. Jon slides a hand to her ankle, inching up the outside of her thigh to the back of her knee, caressing her skin with feather-light touches, countering the frenetic manner he treats her tits with. Each lap of his tongue, each stroke of his fingers, has her twisting and moaning.

“Don't stop,” she sighs, arching her spine as she rakes his scalp with her fingernails, and grinds her legs against each other. “Don't stop.”

Jon glances at the junction of her legs, and sucks in a deep breath when he sees the wetness smeared between her upper thighs.

“I said, don't stop,” she whines, lips pursed in disapproval, releasing her tight grip of his back and hair. 

He suppresses a smirk, and looks up as apologetic as he can muster. “Forgive me,” he pleads, pressing a hand between her thighs. “But I make up for it, if you let me.”

Eyes lightening up, she asks grinning, “How?”

She truly wants to know his dirty mind, and it makes him almost deliriously excited. He puts the other hand on her knee and spreads her legs, opening her up to see the prettily glistening folds, mesmerizingly illuminated. 

“I want to play with your cunt now.” A hiss escapes her, and a groan him, when she widens her legs a little more. She curiously glances down at his hand caressing the inside of her thigh, moving up, and up. Oh, he thinks, and says, “And I want you to watch me.”

She slings an arm around his shoulder to prop herself up, shifts a little and grazes his hard crotch. Instinctively he jerks, but has still enough strength to refrain from rutting against her like a desperate green boy. He already had his release, while she's been so eager for his hands, she forewent modesty.

He gently cups her, and watches her reaction as he slowly drags his fingers through her folds. A low whimper escapes his mouth at her arousal coating his fingers and its scent invading his nose. Gods damn, he feels like a wolf smelling a bitch in heat. Someday, he'll feast on her cunt, too. Someday, he'll fuck her like the wolves they are. 

She leans forward, nibbling her lips, as he takes his time playing with her, sliding up and down, here and there circling her nub. She moans, but never averts her eyes from his hand, while his never leave her face.

“It feels so good,” she whispers, pushing against his palm, seeking more friction, and a gush of her fluids drip down his hand. He has heard of women gushing so hard when they come, it's like water squirting out of their pussies. Someday, he'll find out if that's true, and how he can make Sansa peak like that.

A finger wanders down to her entrance, tentatively circling it. “It will fit,” he rasps, at last answering her question. “I will fit.” 

Her fingernails press into his shoulder, as she throws a quick look at him. “How?”

“I'll prepare you, with my fingers, with my tongue.”

“Tongue?”

He hums. “Will you let me kiss you there?” he asks, pressing her clit between two fingers. She jumps so hard, he has to hold her tight around the waist.

“Someday,” she whimpers. 

“Someday.”

He moves down to her entrance again, teasing without entering, then back to her nub, brushing slow, a bit faster, a bit slower, over and over he slides through her folds, working her steadily up, and she moans, grunts, shivers, and quivers.

“I've put my finger in me,” she utters huskily. “And I imagined it was-,” she halts with a whine, when Jon halts his movements, grunting like a mad man. 

“What did you imagine?” He nearly shouts despaired.

She shifts again, her butt cheek rubbing his groin. “That it was you.”

He howls. He's so hard now, it hurts, and he moves her back a little to sneak his hand into his breeches. “Did you like it?”

She watches his hand on his cock, and smirks. “I found pleasure faster and better than all the times before, and I've prepared plenty.”

He makes sounds he has never heard before, and rests his forehead on her shoulder. “It will be better, I promise,” he babbles, stroking his half-exposed shaft, and draws his finger on her pussy to the place he would kill for to get in. “I'll make it so good for you."

She gasps when he taps his finger over her entrance in a steady rhythm. “Yes,” she groans, in a voice so deep, a shiver runs through him. “Put it in me.”

Slowly he glides his middle finger into her, and she's biting her lips so hard, they turn blood red as she watches it disappear smoothly. 

“You're doing so good,” he croons, retreating until just the tip remains inside, before pushing back, on and on. 

“Do that again!”, she cries out, when his thumb brushes over her clit, and Jon complies happily.

Happiness, he thinks, is such a fickle thing, but somehow, they've found this otherworldly little place, where nothing but pleasure exists. He never wants them to leave, he'll lock them up here. Come what may.

“You’re bigger than your finger.”

“I am.”

“How will you fit then?”

He removes the finger and shows her his middle and forefinger pressed together. She nods, and he slowly pushes them in her cunt. “How does that feel?”

“Good. So good,” she moans. “It doesn't hurt at all.”

“No, it won't,” he promises, and increases his pace. “You're so wet, can you see? Can you see how good you're taking my fingers?” She nods. "You can easily take more," and he thrusts in so deep, his knuckles almost disappear, and she comes quietly, just with a low whine, and quickly. But he feels it, feels the tremble of her body, feels her walls squeezing, trapping his fingers. “Aye, like that, Sansa.”

She's breathing hard, and he stills, and waits.

“Again,” she demands at last, and lets herself fall against the armrest, head lolling back, hips bucking up into his touch. “Faster.”

He speeds up, and so does his hand around his cock. Her eyes flutter shut as she abandons herself to the pleasure, a hand stroking her breasts, playing with her nipples, the other clutching his knee, and Jon can't take his eyes from the sight in front of him.

“Yes, yes,” she murmurs in between breathy moans, and he has to find the little remaining control to stop himself from picking her up, to throw her on the bed, and fuck her senseless.

“Mine,” Sansa, splayed out like a banquet, is Jon's to feast on. “This mouth to kiss, these teats to suck, this cunt to fill, all mine.” Maybe it's dangerous to want to possess her so badly, but he can't give a shit, not when he fucks her with his fingers, faster and deeper and harder, not when she cries out the most lovely sounds, not when she calls his name as she begins to shake, not when he feels her juices flow as she peaks, not when his own release nears, not when he spills with a wolfish growl over their bellies when she sighs, “Yes, all yours.”

Sweat glimmers on her naked body, and she looks almost golden in the firelight, he finds, cradling her limp body in his arms. She's still trembling a little, her head rests on his shoulder, her hot breath grazes his neck, and Jon knows then that he has something in common with that man after all. He would turn the world upside down if he must to have Sansa, regardless the damage. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, he's aware that it's wrong, but he doesn't care, just as Rhaegar hasn't cared. 

Another Targaryen prince and another Stark queen of love and beauty, the world should beware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	11. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: "Wish fulfilment"

Sansa stands on the balcony, staring down the empty training yard, and bites her cheek so hard, she tastes blood, grips the balustrades so tight, her knuckles crack. Jon is gone, and she wants to scream, to cry, to hit something, mostly herself for letting him leave. Raising her gaze overhead, dark clouds move across the grey sky. How fitting. The day he left it began to rain and it hasn't stopped once. She's an idiot, she thinks for the umpteenth time since he rode out of the gates. It was the spring fever, no, it was the endless nights playing games, depriving her of sleep, that messed with her mind.

She was entranced with finding pleasure by his hands for the first time, and so proud. It only occurred to her after that the past never disturbed their wonderful game. She couldn't get enough, like she drank the most delicious wine that catapulted her into spheres of bliss. Just a sip, and she's hooked, and so the days were spent duteously fulfilling tasks, while waiting for the hour of the wolf to come. Every night Sansa sneaked into Jon's chamber, and every night she floated high in a daze of satisfaction. They discovered new lands, exploring valleys hills, and bumps on their bodies with their hands, mouths and tongues. They learned new languages too, dutifully following the rule that they have to say what they want. The first attempts stuttered, spoken in tentative whispers, but now rolling off their tongues like native speakers. Sansa misses it, all of it. She yearns as much for his touch as for the hour or two they've spent under the furs afterwards, laughing, cuddling, kissing, and sharing secrets of their dirty minds, of the things they want to do, someday.

She should've known that it wouldn't last, it never does when she dares to hope. Sansa scolds herself for wasting time standing in the rain. She has important matters to attend to, she shouldn't reminisce that moment they got kicked out of their little paradise. Alas, her mind is stuck, forcing her to relive it over and over. She can still feel it. How she straddled his thighs, one hand around his shaft, the other on his chest for support, bouncing on his fingers in her cunt, and imagining it would be his hardness instead. As if he read her mind, Jon whispered, “Hmmm, you dirty little lady, thinking of my bastard cock in your tight pussy?” Utterly delirious, and so close to completion she vigorously nodded and whined, “Oh Gods, yes! I want my bastard brother's cock!”

Only when he halted her movements and removed his fingers, did she realise that something was off. Moons later, she can still see Jon lying on his back, chest heaving, eyes wide in shock, but glittering dangerously dark. She still hears the beastly growl before he grabbed her and flipped them over, can still feel his weight pressing her down. “This is what makes you so wet, Sansa?” He snarled, relentlessly rubbing his member against her dripping folds. “Thinking of your brother's cock? Do you want it? Do you want my bastard seed? Say it! Do you?” She lost it then, coming hard, whimpering, “I want it, please. Please!” Jon spilled on her belly before she was done begging, and then collapsed on top of her. She can still feel the pounding of his heart, his hot panting on her neck, his hands tightly around her arms.

It was unintentional, she hasn't meant to call him that, didn't know why she has, and didn't want to know. So, when Jon proposed the next morning that he should visit the Free Folk as her emissary, Sansa eagerly agreed. They have spoken before about including their northern neighbours when the lords gather at Winterfell to discuss important matters, especially the purpose of the Wall, which is reported to be slowly melting since spring came. His suggestion made sense and, in a way, Sansa was relieved. She could hardly look at Jon, she couldn't even look at herself in the mirror, so ashamed. Some time apart seemed good, to catch up much needed sleep, to forget this unfortunate incident, and to finalise her plan on how to convince the lords that a marriage between her and Jon is the best for the North.

Sansa snorts. While she knows how to sway her subjects, she hasn't prepared at all for the much overdue talk with Jon, who doesn't have the slightest clue yet. Maybe because she wished he would broach the topic himself, maybe because she still stupidly hoped for her brave knight to declare his undying love. But Jon hasn't declared anything, and neither has she, and now time is running out.

Well, she needn't worry if Jon doesn't come back, she muses sardonically, glaring down the bleak and muddy yard. Perhaps he's so full of regret, he crawled into a hole to rot there. Her stomach revolts, but with Jon she never quite knows what's going on. He may make dumb decisions, justifying it once again with knowing best what's best for everyone. She turns with a huff, and finally goes back inside.

As the days pass with just more rain pouring down, the angrier Sansa gets. So what, she thinks again on the way to the kitchen, she called him brother by accident. Who can blame her? For the vast majority of her life he was, and the important point is that he isn't. She called him ‘my king’ too, and he certainly isn't anymore either. Jon hated being a bastard, but still gets off on being called one. Clearly it all means shit, and he's making a fuss about nothing, she decides as she hears someone behind her. Turning around, a guard hurries towards her, and informs her that Lord Jon and his entourage have been spotted riding towards Winterfell, arriving within the hour.

Sansa stares at the man as if he spoke in riddles, and only after he asked if she was feeling well, she comes back to her senses. Relief, joy and fury take turns as she prepares their arrival, and an hour later she stands in front of the bathtub in his chamber. She needs to greet them properly as is expected, and yet she doesn't move, mesmerised by the steam of the hot water. If he dares to bring some bitch home, she'll kill him this time. Back then, she has been happy and devastated at the same time, and the memory is so vivid, she's nervously tense. Or, what if he only came to tell that he'll leave again to his carefree life in the woods? He wouldn't do that, would he? He promised he'd never leave her. Then again, he never intended to break his promises and still did. Why should now be any different? Sansa can't stand there in the yard, waiting like the proper lady that she pretends to be, only to have her heart broken again.

An eternity passes until she hears footsteps, accompanied by the pitter-patter of Ghost's paws. Her heart pounds when Jon crosses the threshold. He halts in his steps, and grabs the door handle as if he needs support, while Ghost walks towards her, demanding her attention. Absentmindedly stroking his fur, her gaze never leaves Jon's face. He looks dirty and weary from the travel, but also gloomy, and she knows then that her fears were true. It's written all over him, the pain, the conflict, this idiotic fight between desire and honour. Fury almost boils over in a split second, and she strides towards him, wants to scream that he should go back to the fucking ‘true north’ to fuck himself. But then he slams the door shut, reaches for her, and the next second she's trapped between the door and his body. Hands cradling her face, he groans resigned and exasperated, before his hot lips are on her cold ones. The kiss deepens fast, their tongues tangling with each other, and Sansa melts like warm wax, like always, even when he doesn't deserve it. Although, desire won and honour lost. She won, no?

They're out of breath too soon, and with a last peck Jon releases her. Taking his cloak off, he puts it over the armchair, before he goes over to the bathtub. Looking down himself, running his hands through his messy hair, he says with a shy smile, “I really need it.”

It's so cute, Sansa wants to hit him. “You do,” she agrees, leaning against the door, but that's not what she wants to talk about. “Three moons. That's a long time for a short visit. What took you so long?”

Coward, she thinks, as he averts his gaze and looks around the chamber. “I should take the bath before it gets cold. We talk later, aye?”

“We'll talk now, and if you want to take a warm bath, then take it.” 

It's amusing how his face turns red. “It's the middle of the day, what if-”

“What if, what if,” she scoffs. She couldn't care less about what ifs. She steps closer until she stands in front of him, and opens the laces of his jerkin.

“Sansa, it's not-"

“Shut up. I know what has taken you so long,” she says, as she drags the jerkin over his head. “Tell me, have you prepared a speech for me?” She asks, as she takes off the tunic. He stinks, but she doesn't mind. Love is strange, truly. “About how wrong it is? That we need to stop playing games?”

“Have you never thought about what they would say?” 

She knows who they are, and sighs, slightly irritated. “They're dead, Jon, or far away,” she answers and kneels to remove his boots. “It's no sin. We're cousins and not-"

“But that's how we grew up. That's not how we're supposed to-,” he inhales deeply. “There shouldn't be a difference.”

Sansa straightens up again. “But there is, and it's not wrong, because we're not siblings,” she retorts, opening his breeches, and a few moments later he's undressed. He lost weight, she notices, her eyes travelling over his nakedness, and despite the anger and hurt, she feels the strong need to fuss over him, to wash him and put him in warm clothes, to feed him and sing songs until he falls asleep. Love's pathetic, but she still takes his hand, as if he'd need help to get into the bathtub. Jon sinks into the water with a pleased sigh, while she kneels behind him, filling the cup with water to wash his hair.

“You don't have to do that,” he says with that sheepish smile. “What if someone hears you?”

She rolls her eyes, gets up to wake Ghost, and then opens the door just enough for the wolf. “Stay, keep watch,” she whispers, bolts the door, and returns to resume her task. She washes his hair, his beard and face in silence, then motions him to lean forward.

“You're right, it shouldn't matter,” she says low, while rubbing his back with the washcloth. “Arya and Bran doesn't care, Robb and Rickon wouldn't either, and father loved you as much as the rest of us. You were his son and our brother and why should we love you differently now? Why should you love us differently?” She grabs his shoulder pulling him back, and likes the weight of his head against her bosom. “But we have loved each other differently for a long time now. Longer than we know the truth.”

“Don't.”

Wringing the washcloth before she moves to his arms, she wonders why she insists on walking on such thin ice right now. “You know it's true. Maybe I'm rotten and too damaged, maybe I've spent too much time with Cersei,” she muses as she strokes his arms and then intertwines their fingers. “Maybe you came back wrong, broken. Maybe because you're a Targaryen and it's your nature, or maybe it's something else. I don't know, I don't care, and neither should you.”

“How can we not?” He murmurs miserably, and it's annoying.

“We can be happy, we can make it better, that's what you've said. Weren't we happy before you left? Wasn't life better?" She nuzzles his neck with her nose, before she hisses in his ear, “You liked it when I called you brother. You liked it very much.” He moans, and his beard grazes her cheek as he nods. She chuckles, “But you're not. We're the lucky ones, for once.”

Silent again, Sansa washes his legs, feet, and his chest. She's glad he was too distracted with staring at her naked body when she first saw the scars, the evidence of his death. It has been an effort to suppress the tears, and she still wants to rummage the seven hells to bring them back to kill them again. Even the little boy younger than Bran, she thinks, carefully running the washcloth over them.

“It scares me.”

“What?”

“That I am like him.”

It's an utterly ludicrous comparison. “You're nothing like Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“No? He didn't care about his family, about the people who suffered from his decisions. They say he loved her, but he didn't care about Lyanna Stark either. He only cared about getting what he wanted.”

“You always care about other people,” she says, settling behind him again. “Sometimes more than you care for yourself.” He snorts and shakes his head. “You care so much, you believe you have to make decisions for those you love, even when it hurts them.”

Turning his head, Jon gazes up at her. She hates that look. That is, when she doesn't love it. Warm eyes full of love and concern, bordering on anxiety. He surely still thinks he has to carry the burdens of the world, old habits die hard after all. How pretentious, as if he's special, as if he's some fucking chosen one. And of course, he sounds deeply worried when he says, “I don't want to hurt you, Sansa, but-"

“Do you realise how presumptuous it is to think you have any right to decide for me? If you don't want to play anymore just say it, but don't use me, or that man, or your damn honour as an excuse. I am not like her, I'm not an innocent girl you're snatching away from her family. We're not repeating history, and I don't need protection, the least from you. So just speak the truth, it can't be that difficult. What do you want?”

He turns away and time stands nerve-wracking still, until his shoulders quiver, and for a moment she thinks he's crying, but then hears chuckles. “I'm glad it's amusing,” she seethes. 

Jon swings around so fast, water spills on the floor and her dress, capturing her with burning black eyes, catching the air in her throat. Now, that look she always loves, and the swarm of butterflies in her belly wakes up in thrilling anticipation. “I want to play. Now.”

Releasing the breath, she smirks, “See, it's that easy.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, she turns him around again, before slowly trailing them over his chest, down to the part that hasn't been cleaned, yet. “Be good and keep your hands on the edge of the tub."

He does as told. “As you wish, my Queen.”

He's half-hard already when she curls her hand around him, while the other trails a little further down to his balls. He whimpers and jerks. “Shhh,” she soothes, stroking him how she learned he likes. “Did you play alone when you were gone?” He nods. “What did you think of?”

Relaxing against her chest, he closes his eyes, and answers softly. “Of how I made you come only by playing with your teats. Of when you took my cock in your hands the first time and I spilled so embarrassingly fast.” They both giggle at the memory. “Do you remember when you wanted to know how many fingers you can take?” 

She hums, warm wetness trickling between her legs, and she bites his shoulder a little. “Four,” she breathes, pumping him faster, and he grips the edge tighter. He glances up at her, and licks his lips. “Yes, four,” he groans, and his smooth cock throbs in her hand. “Of our last night here,” he stutters between moans. “How all I want is to fill you with my bastard seed.” She mewls, rubs her thighs against each other for some friction, and works him harder and faster. Soon, his balls tighten, and a guttural sound escapes his throat as he shudders his release.

He goes slack with a satisfied sigh, while Sansa's desperate for her own release and a whimper leaves her. Looking up, Jon asks in feigned ignorance, “Are you in need of something, Your Grace?”

Sansa nods pouting, but smiles when he gets up and out of the tub, and says, “Take off your smallclothes, and get on the bed.” Drying himself with a towel, he adds somewhat demurely, “If it pleases Your Grace.”

It does, and while he puts on a clean tunic and breeches, Sansa rids herself of the soaked fabric, and lies down on the furs.

“Not like that,” Jon says, standing at the bedside, picking up a pillow. “With your butt on the edge, and your legs bend, so that you feel the furs under your heels.”

Pushed up on her elbows, Sansa follows his instructions. “No,” he corrects again. Dropping the pillow on the ground in front of her, he kneels down, places his hands on her knees, and pushes them apart. “Let me see your wet pussy.” 

He slides his hand through her slit, and Sansa falls on her back, moaning. With the fabric of her skirts crumbled around her waist, she can't see Jon anymore, and it occurs to her, that all he sees is her most private parts. She snickers at their debauchery. Shutting her eyes, she enjoys Jon’s ministrations. She'll have her own satisfaction quick like this, she knows. Even quicker if he puts a finger or two in her. But he doesn't, instead he kisses her inner thighs, and she thinks he licks off her smeared juices there. 

“Will you let me kiss your lovely cunt, please?”

How come they haven't done that yet, she wonders. “If you ask so nicely.”

He hums pleased, and without forewarning he spreads her wide, lapping up at her with the full width of his rough tongue. She cries out, and instinctively clamps her legs together. A muffled chuckle is followed by pleas for air, and she releases Jon.

“You need to be quiet. We don't want to scandalise the servants with hearing how naughty you are.” 

She doesn't give a rat’s ass about servants or anyone for that matter. How in the seven hells haven't they done this before? “Let them hear,” she snarls, and he laughs.

“Put your hands on your knees and keep them open. It'll last longer if I don't suffocate.”

It can last forever, Sansa thinks, hopes, and soon she squirms and groans, as Jon licks, sucks, and nibbles. He loves it, to bring her close to peak, only to stop then, prolonging the pleasure, preferably until she begs. She sometimes does, sometimes she returns the favour until he's a quivering mess, but eventually they both get their wishes fulfilled, and it's always worth the wait.

“Oh!” She calls out, arching her back when he plunges his tongue into her. He pushes it in and out slowly, then faster, while his thumb strokes her nub. Gasping for air, she whines, “It's so good. Don't stop, please don't stop.” This can't get any better, she's certain. But then he switches, and his tongue laps up her folds again, while he inserts his fingers. She moans and quivers hard when he does something with them inside her, something new, something maddeningly intense. It's as if he curves his fingers to press some gratifying hidden spot. “Again!”

He obliges, sucks and licks her clit, and fingers her hard and fast. Sansa feels the familiar high approaching, the clenching of her cunt, the tingling sensations, but it's also different this time. More, she doesn't know how or what, just that it's more. She can't keep still nor quiet any longer, but Jon doesn’t relent. Faster and faster, while mumbling encouragements in between, urging her to let go, to come over his face. At last, she starts shaking, and bites her lips to keep the rising scream inside as she comes. It's so shattering, her whole body seems to lift off the bed, surges of wetness flow out of her, and it doesn’t end. On and on, waves of pleasure roll through her, even after she skidded away from his touch, she keeps shivering and jerking.

Slowly coming down, she opens her eyes, and finds Jon still kneeling in front of the bed. He looks feral, like that night he showed her pleasure only with his words. Wetness drips off his beard, his fresh tunic drenched, like a bucket of water has been spilled over him. Breathing hard and fast, he snarls and grunts, as he pushes himself up. “Leave,” he hisses, crawling towards her. Run and flee.

A thousand times Sansa fantasised about it, but not once has she imagined it like this, in broad daylight, and utterly inevitable. She wouldn't want it any other way. “No.”

“Sansa,” he warns, kneeling in front of her, unlacing his breeches.

Shaking her head, she rucks up her skirts and spreads her bended legs. Jon hisses, settles within the cradle of her thighs, and holding himself up on his elbow he slides his cock through her folds. Sansa can't wait anymore. Gripping the tunic, she pulls at him until his face is so close, their breaths mingle. “I'm all yours,” she whispers. “And I want you to take me. Now.”

With a deep groan, he presses the head of his shaft against her slick entrance, murmuring almost relieved “All mine,” and she doesn't think it's possible to love him more.

She's wrong. As Jon nudges his way into her, so careful, as if she's the most delicate and precious thing, Sansa's heart swells with love so boundless, it's almost painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a cliffhanger of sorts. I'm thinking of picking up where we left off here in the next chapter. Would you like that?
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	12. Jon

It's a battle between instinct and restraint. The way Sansa gazes at him with glimmering dark eyes full of fire and prettily flushed cheeks, the way she licks and parts her lips, caressing his skin with her hot breath, the way she envelops him tight with her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips. All reminders to treat her body as precious as she is to his heart. 

But the drenched tunic still clings to Jon's chest, his face and beard still bedewed with her juices, droplets wetting his mouth and he can't stop tasting her on his tongue, reminding him of how she erupted with pleasure just a few minutes ago. Then, looking at her feels wedging, a shackle that needs to be teared off, and all he wants is to shut his eyes, grab her hard and plunge deep into her dripping pussy, frenziedly taking her like the mad man he is.

Jon knows self-restraint, knows the struggle between desire and denial all too well, and so he keeps his eyes fixed on Sansa, holds himself up despite the painful tremble in his arms and legs, and inches forward slowly, gently, cautiously. She feels so good, so tight, so warm, so smooth, and her moans sound so enticingly, a shudder runs through him and his cock urges him on, twitching and leaking. He whimpers, his eyelids flutter. But no, look at her!

“I won't break,” she whispers huskily, a smile growing on her face, so beautiful it's distracting, and before he grasps what's happening, Sansa has her legs wrapped higher around his waist, pulls him flush with her body as close as possible with the heavy fabric between them, and then he's fully seated inside her, surrounded in wonderful heat and boundless love.

It's an onslaught of overwhelming sensations, and with a mixture of a groan and a sob, he cradles her head and buries his face in her neck. It’s both familiar and new, like a song he knows but with a different tune, a much better one. Entangled, they lie still and drift away, only holding tight to the bliss of absolute togetherness.

At last, instinct loses patience, and Jon's hips move. Slowly first, testing, before he pulls out a little and pushes in again. “How do I feel?”

“Hmmm, so good,” Sansa hums, clenching around him. He grunts, and bracing himself up on his elbows, he looks into her eyes glinting with curiosity. “You like that?”

Nodding, he bends his head to kiss her, moaning in her mouth as she keeps squeezing and releasing his cock inside her. It makes it so much harder to master the impulse to rip the hindering dress off to feel her curves pressed against him in all their soft and supple glory, and to fuck her senseless. Beads of sweat form on his brows, his muscles burn, it's nerve-wracking and mind-blowing at the same time.

“I won't break,” she repeats, so temptingly. Just a little, he decides and increases the pace. Sansa's eyes flicker as she moans, eagerly raising her hips to meet his. “More.”

It's a maddeningly alluring idea to abandon control completely, but frightening, too. Jon doesn't know what it feels like – off the battlefield or not led by fury. What would he be capable of if unleashed? Images of his many fantasies come to his mind, of mercilessly pounding into her from behind, a hand harshly pulling at her hair, the other wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her puff for air, while he calls her his little dirty whore. 

“No,” Jon snarls, sharply shaking his head.

Sansa huffs, and curls her hand around his neck to bring his face so close, their noses touch. She bites at his bottom lip before sucking his tongue into her mouth, kissing him almost aggressive. “I'm not a porcelain doll,” she hisses with blazing dark eyes, locking her feet tightly behind his back, grabbing his arse and pushes and pulls until he sinks so deep it's dizzying. “Yes, like that,” she moans pleased. “Fuck me, bastard.”

No one knows to push Jon's buttons, to make him lose his head, as well as Sansa, and so he retreats, almost all the way, only to ram into her again to the hilt. She shrieks, and he purrs, “Shhh,” while thrusting into her, accelerating the pace. “This is what you want?”

She nods fiercely, and the slobbering sound of her cunt swallowing his dick, mixed with the rhythmic creaking of the bed and her melodic moans, is the most bewitching song Jon has ever heard. More sweat trails down his body and soon the pressure builds at the base of his spine. He slows, denying instinct once more, and chuckles when Sansa mewls complaining. Covering her mouth with his, he slides a hand past the fabric to where their bodies join. Choking on a surprised gasp, she tugs his hair when he swipes his thumb against her clit. He loves the pleasurable twisting of her fingers against his scalp, compelling him to rub it with more pressure. 

Bucking her hips and arching her back, Sansa pants, “I can't again! I can't!”

But the fingers in his hair, now curled into fists of agony, just make everything so much better, the biting pain feels glorious together with the soothing warmth of her pussy. Pulling out, he trails kisses along her jaw, and teases the sensitive spot behind her ear with the tip of his tongue. “You can,” he hisses, and plunges into her again.

Eyes rolling back, stomach clenching against his hand relentlessly playing with her clit, and she cries out, begging, “It's too sensitive! Please!”

Jon isn't without mercy, so he stops and she sighs relieved. Smirking, he takes hers and places it where his hand has been. “Touch yourself then,” he commands, guiding her fingers. “However long, Sansa, and if it takes hours, but I will feel you come.” Whimpering, she obediently begins to stroke herself tentatively, and he hums, “Good girl.”

Propping himself on his hands, one on either side of her head, Jon lets his gaze wander from her beautiful face to his cock sliding in and out of her glistening cunt. All mine, he revels in the certainty that only he gets to see Sansa like this. “Look at you,” he croons. “Taking me so well.” 

A surge of wetness drools on his hardness, and he could be undone just by the sight and the sound of her throaty and needy cries. “Because you prepared me so well,” she rasps. “With your tongue and fingers, like you promised.”

Grunting like a beast at her praise, he dives into her faster and harder, while she quickens the movements on her nub, tossing her head, unravelled and desperate. “Yes, come all over my cock,” he spurs her on as her body begins to convulse, and he feels ready to burst. “Now!”

The good girl she is, Sansa does as told, with a cry of his name. Grabbing his tunic, she pulls him down and sinks her teeth into his shoulder as she coats him in wet gushes. Jon howls from the pain of her bite and the delightful spasms of her cunt, and then his hips stutter, his vision blurs, and he falls off the edge. Sansa's teeth dig deeper into his flesh with each spurt of his seed filling her, the aftershocks of her orgasm wrench the last drops from him, it's the most intense he has ever experienced, and it sets him free. He captures her mouth fiercely, and if he'd be a poet, he'd have pretty words of his undying love, but so this kiss is all he has and he hopes that Sansa understands anyway. When they break apart, there are tears in the corner of her eyes and a loving smile around her lips, that makes his stomach flutter, and he thinks she has.

Beaming at each other, they float down from the pinnacle of pleasure. Rolling off Sansa's body, he grabs her waist to draw her close, and she rests her head on his chest with a deep sigh. Brushing a damp tendril of hair from her face, flushed with utter satisfaction, Jon wishes they could stay like this forever as he finally allows his eyes to flutter shut.

When he wakes, he's alone and it's dark outside. Sansa must have put the furs over him before she left, and sitting up he notices that the tub has been removed, that the fire has been stoked, and that there's a plate with bread and cheese and a cup of ale on his table. A smile grows on his face, and it doesn't leave as he cleans himself and puts on fresh clothes, as he eats the substitute for the dinner he missed, as he opens the windows and sees the lights everywhere, evidence that it's early in the evening. Sansa will still be awake and Jon needs to talk to her. 

Enlightened by today's events, he's about to run to her chamber. He has been a fool for much too long. Yes, it was exhausting having her so near all the time, a constant walk on thin ice. Always trying to balance giving in to their desires without allowing greed to overrun him. It almost had, and he fled scared shitless, wasting moons with being miserable and making useless decisions, because he couldn't accept that he simply isn't the man he pictured himself to be. Now, freed from doubts, from any self-imposed restrictions, there's no point in wasting more time. Sansa can call him brother in bed as often as she likes, but he's not. They're indeed the lucky ones, and Jon realises that all he ever dared to wish for in the secret depths of his heart is within his reach.

However, he doesn't run to her, instead turns away from the window and sits down at his desk. He may not know much and seems cursed to make mistakes whenever the opportunity arises, but he heard her loud and clear, and she can't think it's just another one of his ‘presumptuous’ decisions. Yet, if he would march into her chamber, falling on his knees with some heartfelt declaration, she'd be pissed too, thinking it a lame attempt to manipulate her. As it would be. She's a sucker for romantic horseshit and he'd hope to make her swoon into his arms, so he can carry her to the Godswood right away. She would believe he only wants to marry for honour, because it's proper and expected, or that he just panics because he didn't pull out and fears he put a bastard in her. All true, but also not. 

Either way, Jon thinks with a long exhale, he needs to be smart about this. Sansa doesn't want to marry again, otherwise she would have said something by now, but she needs an heir, so he needs to convince her that it would be the best for her, for the North, for everyone, preferably so that she believes it her own idea. Chuckling a little, he muses that it's somewhat like planning a battle.

It's difficult to think strategy and tactic when it's been only a few hours since he had her beneath him, writhing and moaning, so impossibly beautiful. Gods, and before! Dousing him with her juices squirting out like a waterfall, her whole body jerking and shivering for a little eternity, a sight that will haunt Jon forever. 

Fuck it, he decides, leaves his chamber and hurries to hers. He'll say his piece, and either Sansa agrees right away, or he will endlessly bug her until she does. She can decide how she wants it, smooth or aggravating, but she will stand by his side in front of the heart tree, eventually.

She sits at the desk when he enters without knocking, and looks up surprised. “Sorry,” he mutters, watching her quickly grabbing some papers and putting them under the ledgers. “Am I disturbing you?”

“It can wait until tomorrow.” She gets up and walks around the table. “Have you eaten the bread and cheese?”

“I did,” he replies, eyes sweeping over her. She's wearing a different dress, and her damp hair flows around her shoulders. She has taken a bath herself in the meantime. “But I could take a second serving.”

She laughs out loud, and lets herself fall into the armchair. “How sleeky you are.”

“You like it,” he retorts smugly, settling down beside her. He finds the book he has been reading last on the side table, and it warms his heart that she kept it there. This is what Jon wants more than anything. A life shared full of love and care, of trust and cosiness, until they grow old.

“Sansa,” he begins, but gets distracted when she holds a plate with oat biscuits under his nose.

“Eat them,” she offers encouraging. "You lost weight.”

He has noticed. “A little.”

“Too much,” Sansa objects. “And you need to be strong and healthy. As cute as you look sleeping, you can't always drop off right after we fucked. I'd like to cuddle.”

Dumbfounded, he stares at her grinning face. He wants that too, cuddling from nightfall to sunrise. “I've been thinking,” he starts again, only to be stopped by the frown forming on her forehead. “Is something the matter?”

“Please eat,” she implores, but he's sure that's not the only matter bothering her. Still, he stuffs his mouth with a whole biscuit. “I tried to assure myself that you're coming home, that you wouldn't break your promise, but the fear just didn't go away, the whole three moons.”

Seven hells, he thinks as he swallows the biscuit. The happiness vanishing, he tilts his head, and watches her with narrowed eyes. “Don't pretend you weren't confused and didn't feel shame. You agreed, enthusiastically, that I should visit the Free Folk. So, don't put this all on me.” 

Sucking in a breath, Sansa crosses her arms in front of her chest, and stares into the crackling fire in the hearth. He laughs humourless. “You know, just as well as I, what they would think about us, what Arya will say when she comes home. You want to tell me that you don't care? That you haven't worried about it?” She drops her head a little, and it's all the answer he needs. “I thought so.” 

But enough time has been wasted, so leaning forward, Jon disentangles her arms to take her hands in his, stroking them with his thumbs. “You said it yourself, they're dead or far away. We have none but each other, so do they matter? Do they get to have an opinion about how we find happiness, how we make our life better?”

“They don't, but what if you change your mind again?”

“I've spent three wretched moons preparing myself to do what's right and honourable, and then all was forgotten the moment I saw you. It seems that regardless between what or whom, I always choose you.”

Lifting her chin slightly, she arches a brow, and asks a hint biting, “It's honour or me then? Not both?”

For the longest time, his honour was a burden Jon carried around like a trophy, desperate to prove that he's worthy being a son of Ned Stark. But what's honour compared to a woman's love? “I'd like to have both, but I don't give a fuck about honour when it keeps me away from you.”

She smirks. “So, I don't have to worry about every misplaced word I say?”

Letting go off her hands, he falls back against the cushion with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It wasn't because you called me brother. Not only, at least. It was like I've been woken up by a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over me, and I realised that I'm much less like Ned than I hoped, and much more like Rhaegar than I feared.”

She dares to roll her eyes. “I honestly don't understand how you can believe that.”

“I hate how men look at you, how they devour you with their leering eyes. How they talk about you,” he snarls through gritted teeth, the fingers of his sword hand twitching. “I hate what they want to do with you, and I know their lewd minds, believe me, I know my own after all.”

Her eyes shine amused. “You're a bit overprotective, it's true. But I like that. Just as I like your lewd mind.”

With a snide chuckle, he drops to his knees in front of her, cups her cheeks and whispers, almost spiteful, “If I could, I'd lock you up in a tower, just like he did with her.” She parts her mouth in surprise, and brushing her nose with his, he darts out his tongue, sliding it over the seam of her upper lip with relish. “Only for me to see, to touch, to feel.”

She snorts, a corner of her mouth quirks up wryly, and a crease between her eyebrows grows. “Our own Tower of Joy to play in?” She jests scoffing, knowing too well how terrifying it is to be a man's prisoner. But then, with a shake of her head, she puts her hands on his arms and rests her forehead against his. “You would never do that. You run away to brood and endure to be miserable, like a proper Stark.”

“But I came back, forgot all my good intentions, and fucked you in broad daylight.”

“You need to trust me that I know what I want, and I trust you to always give me a choice.”

“But I don't want you to have a choice. I want you to be mine, and mine alone,” he growls, and hopes she hears the question behind it. His eyes linger on her face, searching and waiting for her answer. 

Her gaze drops to his mouth, and her tongue follows where his just has been on her lips. “I'm yours,” she murmurs with a trembling breath, “As you're mine.”

Happiness soars through him once more, and shifting a little on his knees, he takes her hands again and clears his throat. “If that's so, we should promise it-“

“There's something I have to ask-"

They speak at the same time, and with a smile, he motions her to speak first.

Straightening up and inhaling deep, she says, “I loved what we did this afternoon, but...” Jon hears a hint of regret in her voice, and instinctively his jaw clenches, and his body stiffens. “We can't be so careless, not like this. Can you please ask Maester Wolkan for moon tea tomorrow? I can't do it myself, you understand, don't you?”

Suddenly, it feels as if she’s a hundred miles away instead of a few inches. Moon tea. The words punch the air from his lungs, and Jon feels as if he's falling. Inscrutable sadness rises, and dropping her hands, he nods with a heavy sigh. “I understand.”

For a happy moment he deluded himself that they're truly the fortunate ones, but of course, they're not. Not him, not ever. Sansa may be his in her heart, but her people don't know that. What would the lords say if they would? They're neither dead nor far away, they matter, they do get to have an opinion. And they won't like it either, another dragon stealing and defiling a wolf of Winterfell.

“Jon, I've been meaning to talk with you for quite some time about something,” he hears her say, but doesn't really listen. 

“You're right,” he says bitterly. “I should have pulled out-"

“What?"

“I won't be responsible for another Targaryen terrorising the world,” he spats. “That blood dies with me, at last.”

Sansa's eyes widen in shock, flickering between his as if she's searching for a lie. “You don't mean that.”

He does, and doesn't. Scrambling up from the ground, he turns his back on her. There's a fist around his heart, wrenching the last remains of hope.

“I feel like something is horribly wrong, and I don't understand why. Please look at me, Jon. Please talk to me.”

He knows how craven it is, but he can't bear the look upon her face when she understands his pain. To want her to be his wife, to want a child, to want to shower them with all the love that he locked up deep inside, despaired to be set free. He can't bear to see the pity and regret, that he wants what she can't give. 

“I'm tired,” he replies brusquely, and hurries to the door. 

Sansa catches his wrist before he can grab the handle, and blocks his way. “I hate when you're like this,” she seethes with unyielding cold eyes that burn and glimmer with fury. “It always makes me worry what you'll do when I turn my back for a damn second. So, when you make oh so honourable decisions again, keep in mind that I'll find you. However long, Jon, and if it takes years, I'll find the bloody hole you crawled into to hide and sulk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to hide, too?  
> Stay healthy and safe! xoxo


	13. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you still remember what happened in the beginning of this story, there are some callbacks in here. In fact, I'd call this chapter alternatively "Full Circle - Part 1".  
> I hope you'll enjoy it!

Sansa doesn't believe in fate, but still wonders if it's hers to be always searching for Jon. Having no luck at the usual places, she’s now on the way to the Glass Gardens. Who knows if he suddenly developed a proclivity for gardening as well? She snorts. Why's she running around the grounds of Winterfell, when he vowed to never hide in some bloody hole, but to stay at her side until she's sick of his face? And how come that no one she asked knows where their Lord is? Whenever she dares to ‘go missing', she gets a lecture about dangers hiding behind every corner.

No one can protect anyone, she once claimed to know, even complained that Jon wouldn't stop trying. Horseshit, but after years of being imprisoned, silenced, and worse, she had had enough of being dependent on others to save her, even Jon. Now, she values his protectiveness, despite it bordering on possessiveness. She understands better than she'd like. His return seems to have whipped up his admirers into a frenzy of excitement, and she loathes it. It'll be futile, but she shouts his name into the void of the glasshouse anyway, before turning around again, patience hanging by a thread.

The day Jon came home about a fortnight ago was nerve-wracking, hardly has Sansa ever gone through so many emotional turbulences in the span of a single day. First fear and anger that he has left her, then sheer euphoria, followed by worry, almost panic. Not only would a pregnancy at this point ruin her plans, fathering a bastard could throw Jon into an existential crisis with doubtful chances of recovery. In hindsight, she contemplates, it's no wonder their conversation went horribly wrong, his day couldn't have been much different either. Perhaps, she hasn’t handled it all too well. 

Looking up at the bright blue spring sky, Sansa utters a heavy sigh. She just wants to be happy, why can't she ever be? For so long she believed that no one will marry her for love, and it makes her want to scream that she'd still be forced to wed for her name only, if Jon doesn't change his mind. She won't neglect her duty to the North, and the lords arrive in less than a moon to discuss the pressing matter of her marital status. She can't put them off further, and wouldn't need to, if Jon wouldn't insist dying lonely.

She spent quite some time pondering about how to turn the obstacle of his parentage into an advantage, but never considered that Jon has the biggest issue with it. That revelation has put an abrupt halt to finally proposing her intent, and exasperatingly determined, he holds true to his word. He procured the moon tea, and hasn't spilled inside her again. That blood dies with me, he said and it's all Sansa thinks about. Yet, they remain silent about their relationship and its future, instead tiptoe around each other as if they're always in imminent danger of breaking through thin ice with one misplaced step, and it's exhausting.

Today however, sitting at her desk, once more going through all her ideas, letter drafts, and plans regarding the matter, Sansa had an epiphany, of sorts. They suck at talking. They don't lie, as promised, but evade uncomfortable topics like the plague, and too often chose to fight instead. Assumptions can be harmful too, so what does Sansa truly know? Jon wants her to be his, but doesn't want to marry? Or maybe he does, but doesn't want children? Or maybe he wants that nothing changes at all? Maybe, maybe, maybe, her head aches from the confusion. In less than a moon she has to assure everyone that she can secure the continuity of House Stark and the succession of the northern throne, and at least Sansa knows this: She'll marry someone else and have their children when the seven hells freeze over. Which is why she's running around Winterfell searching for Jon.

She finds him, or he her, in his chamber. He doesn't seem surprised to see her waiting when he enters, just takes off his tunic and begins to freshen up, while babbling about some great improvement he and the men came up with in the stables. 

“The stables”, Sansa murmurs, and huffs. She's so stressed out, she can't even enjoy his muscled, dirty, sweaty chest at display. “Be quick. I want to take a walk before dinner and because you insist that I should always be guarded, you join me.” He nods pleased, as if she finally came to her senses, and she rolls her eyes. This is her home, no one can frighten her, she goes wherever she wants. “I wait in the yard,” she states brusquely, and leaves swiftly.

Even more tedious than searching for Jon is listening to his admirers. A group of giggling maids pass her, swooning over Lord Jon, oh so handsome and so strong fixing that damn thing in the stable. Sansa bites her cheek, Gods, he had an audience. He should be the one locked up, only for her to see, to touch, to feel. He's right, it's tempting. Even more so when Jon steps out of the keep followed on his heels by the maid Sansa despises irrationally fierce. She still remembers her kneeling in the dirt, a hand under her skirts, moaning excitedly as that man fucked her mouth. Mostly though, Sansa remembers watching her at the feast in honour for the Lord and Knights of the Vale, pressing her bosom in Jon's face, whispering her lewd offer into his ear.

Sansa drags him past the heart tree, deeper into the Godswood, luring him into some secluded area, so he can't avoid the conversation without leaving her unguarded. He might suspect something, pausing here and there, inspecting the blooming bushes, flowers and trees, probably still trying to keep them safe on the thin ice. Well, if they go down, so be it.

“Has she said anything?”

“Who?”

“The maid who follows you like a puppy begging for a treat.” He averts his eyes, and stifles a sigh. “Like you using her warm and wet mouth.” 

He stares somewhat scandalised, before glancing upwards, a hint bothered. “Does it matter?”

“You're fantasizing about locking me up so that no man can even so much as look at me, but I'm supposed to be fine with women offering you their services?”

She knows what he's about to say before a word leaves his open mouth. “It is the same. And you know why they dare? Because they think you're free.” 

He shrugs as if it wouldn't concern him at all. Or-, a thought hits her like a punch in the stomach. “Do you like it? What else are they offering? Things you would like to do? Are you missing something?”

He looks at her scrutinisingly through narrowed eyes. “What's this about?”

Clearly, it's about their impending happy union and their beautiful babies, whose names she's picked already. Alas, “Do you truly enjoy it?”

“What?”

What indeed, this isn't the conversation she's prepared for, and it's increasingly uncomfortable. But what's an epiphany worth if the same mistakes are made? “You're always holding back, even when I urge you not to, and maybe it's-"

“I'm enjoying it!” A worried frown on his face deepens when he asks, low, “Are you?”

“How can I not? We spend most of the time with your head and hands between my legs. The part where you take pleasure is quick in comparison.”

“And you're complaining?”

“No, it's just,” she starts slowly, finding the right words. “When you call me a good girl, I like that, a lot. And you like when I tell you how good you make me feel.” He gulps and his cheeks turn a peachy hue, which is so adorable. “We both like to please, to give, and I,” she explains, raising a hand to stop his protesting. “I want to give more.”

It's written all over his face, imagining something he'd like her to do, or do with her. Intriguing, but it lasts only a second, and the worried frown returns. “But, what if-"

“I want you in my mouth,” Sansa blurts out, and Jon sucks in a trembling breath, eyes darkening instantly and dropping to her lips. “I still think about that night of the feast. Don't you?” 

He bites his bottom lip, like he's forcing himself not to admit it. Why? It's obvious, and they're sharing their dirty minds, no? Sansa steps closer, and closer until he's trapped against a tree. Jon shakes his head, as so often when he refuses her encouragements, and just like that, the scales fall from her eyes and the confusion in her head dissolves.

“Because you never take what you believe is not yours to have.” Like he wouldn't ask her to suck his dick, despite wanting it, he wouldn't declare his undying love and ask for her hand. “You hide your wishes like dark secrets. You run away until you convinced yourself that you don't want it. But you do.”

He turns his head and averts his eyes. He's painfully beautiful so vulnerable, and it reminds her of when they were children. She hasn't given it much thought then, too busy with her own challenges of growing up, but she knew he suffered being a bastard. He isn't, but has it changed anything? To be denied what the rest of them took for granted and be constantly told to be worth less than others, how long did it take until he believed it to be true? 

Gentle, as if he's a frightened rabbit about to flee into its safe burrow, she caresses his cheek, gaze seeking his, but he still can't let her see, and rests his forehead against her shoulder. But it's all right. Everything's going to be all right. 

“I love you.”

He heaves a deep sigh, and wraps his arms tightly around her, pulling her flush against him. His body shakes lightly with muffled sobs, and stroking over his back and head, Sansa nuzzles her nose into the side of his neck. Distracted and distressed by her own issues, she's been disappointed that he wasn't as relieved, hasn't embraced the truth as easily. But how can he be relieved, when deeply rooted convictions define the way he sees himself? How can he embrace it, when the truth seems worse than the lie?

She wants to stay here with Jon in her arms, never going back to where people are cruel, but then her stomach growls. Raising his head, and quickly wiping his eyes with a shy, embarrassed smile, he says huskily, “Dinner must be ready.”

“Aye, and you shouldn't miss it,” she replies, wearing a smile too, which won't leave when they walk back, chatting about the beauty of spring and its blooming bushes, flowers and trees, dipped into the rosy light of the sunset. Not when they eat in silence, while Jon observes her from the corner of his eyes, wondering if he can dare to hope. Not when he's so easy to read with her eyes and heart truly open. 

The smile falters only when Maester Wolkan approaches them on the way to her solar. Not now, Sansa thinks with a stifled sigh, but then sees the benefit. Telling Jon to go ahead, and after solving the matter, she asks the Maester to inform their servants that they won't be needed tonight. Enough time has been wasted, and she knows that she'll have a lot of ‘buts' to refute to persuade him that hope's not needed when it's fact. Hurrying to her chambers, the smile returns. She's determined, no matter what he comes up with, she won't ever relent, and in less than a moon they'll announce the happy news.

Time's a cursed fickle thing. Sometimes a good friend in ones favour, sometimes an enemy standing in ones way. Upon entering, Sansa freezes on the spot at seeing Jon in front of her desk reading a letter. The Others take her, she forgot to put them away earlier.

“You invited suitors to Winterfell to court you?” He asks without looking up, his voice so deep, it's chilling. “To make pretty eyes at some lordling at day, while I fuck you at night?”

It's so scathing, she slams the door and after a few quick strides, plants herself in front of him. How dares he after what she told him in the Godswood, a damn blink of an eye ago!

“How-"

“Did you just use me?” He wonders, and she hears the little tremble, sees the hurt flickering in his eyes. “Did you use me to show you pleasure only to be ready for someone else?”

It's frightening how easy he assumes the worst, and perhaps she should wonder how little he knows and trusts her. Yet, enlightened as Sansa seems to be today, she knows that this has nothing to do with her, but everything with him. With his amazed gratitude for the cloak she's made, his questioning look when they declared him king, his objection when she called him a good ruler, with his accusations of undermining him, of having no faith, just because she disagreed with his decisions. With him being haunted by the terrors of the past and a life deprived of love, doubting all good things and accepting all bad as true.

“I'm free then to fuck the pretty maids?” He gnarls, his hot breath hitting her face. “Their mouths, cunts, and arses?”

She gasps, “Filthy whores!” And then squeaks when he grabs her arms, pulling her against him. His body seems on fire, his hands burn like blistering coals even through the fabric, his glare so dark, so intense, she forgets to breathe. 

“Isn't it what I am? Your filthy whore to play with?” 

Glaring back, she snorts. Sansa knows what he's doing, challenging her to fight back, to hurt, to do what he expects, but she'll disappoint him tonight. Words are wind, so she'll show him her undying love. No matter what, she won't relent.

“My mouth to kiss you,” he seethes, before his is on hers, hot and pressing, and gone too soon. 

“My hands to pleasure you.” She puffs for air when he cups and squeezes her breasts, pinching the nipples. Once she came only from his hands and mouth on them, she recalls, as wetness trickles through her smallclothes. 

“My cock to fill you,” he rasps, curling a hand around her neck, the other grabbing her between the legs. “All yours.”

Needy for friction, she pushes against his hand, and a soft whimper escapes her. It's the moment Jon snaps. His eyes flicker wildly, full of rage and desire, and he growls, unleashed at last, and Sansa flashes a smile. The papers crumble underneath her and books hit the floor when he presses her onto the desk, rucks up her skirts and rips the damp smallclothes down her legs.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” he purrs in smug delight, opening his breeches, and parting her legs with his knees and hips. “Always ready for me.” Nibbling her bottom lip in anticipation, she grips the edge of the table to brace herself, as he brushes against her folds, probing at her entrance. “Doesn't that make you my dirty whore?” He muses, with bared teeth, and rams into her.

Digging into the flesh of her thighs, he fucks her ruthlessly, and soon her legs quiver under his hands, her walls squeeze around him, her wetness drools in excess. It's glorious. 

“Hmmm, do you hear that? Do you hear your drenched pussy?”

She nods mewling, biting the back of her hand to suppress the scream that wants to be heard. Tightening the grip on her legs, he pulls her toward him in one quick motion, and dives into her deeper and harder. Her eyes flutter shut, she's ready to fly away.

“No,” he hisses between harsh grunts and heavy breaths. “Stay here.”

Whining, she forces her eyes to remain open. Sweat shines on his skin, bathed in firelight, and Sansa thinks of a golden hero from the songs. It's mesmerising, he's all she sees, and she comes, gushing and shivering. 

Jon's eyes blaze with dark feral heat. “Again.” 

He hooks her legs over his shoulders, and leans into her so close, her feet sway over her head, before he shoves into her with such force, the desk moves a few inches. Jon doesn't slow down, spreads her to the hilt, relentlessly hitting that spot, and Sansa's losing her mind. It crashes down like an overpowering wave, she clenches and jerks so hard he slides out, and with her wails of ecstasy her juices pour out. 

Jon laughs, delirious, before plunging back. “Again.” 

Once more she comes, and he explodes growling, back arched, eyes closed, spilling burst after burst into her, before collapsing, and utterly breathless, Sansa revels in the feeling of being surrounded by nothing but Jon.

It's over too soon. He pushes himself up glancing down, and her heart sinks at his growing dismayed expression. Stumbling back, he shuts his eyes and rubs his face. No, she thinks, and wants to pull him back, but her legs are limp, so she slides on the floor, hot and sticky seed dripping on her thighs.

“Sansa!”

Shame blemishing his pretty face, he bends down to help, but she doesn't want help, and croaks, “No.” He inhales deeply, fumbles with his breeches, and opens his mouth, but Sansa doesn't want an apology either. She's not even close to relent. “I want more,” she grunts, pushing his hands away to grab his soft cock. Eyes locked on his, she presses a kiss on the tip. His legs buckle and, whimpering, he falls back against the desk, grabbing the edge for support, and Sansa smirks.

“You don't have-“

She shuts him up by enwrapping him with her lips, slowly twirling her tongue around the head, and tentatively sucking. She likes it, feels like she's turning a past torment into something delightful. Working back and forth along his shaft with more vigour, he grows harder, gasping and mewling. She likes that, too, and hums, before releasing him with a funny little pop, that makes her giggle. 

Jon gazes down as if she's an illusion, still uncertain, still refusing to understand. Placing his hands on her head, she says hoarsely, “Hold on to me,” before taking him back into her mouth. Just a bit, he gently twists his fingers and rocks his hips forward, just an inch.

Gripping his thighs, yanking him closer, she purrs, “More.” The tip touches the back of her throat, she gags a little, but it passes quickly and doesn't hurt, no, this is good, so, so good. “More, Jon.”

Enveloping him with more force, she moans pleased, as his fingers twine around her hair, and tugging at his legs, she spurs him on. Fully erect now, and with a deep, delicious groan ripping from his chest, Jon thrusts a few times, before pulling out again.

“I'll be whatever you wish me to be,” she murmurs, between kisses from the head, “even your dirty whore,” to the base, “As long as I can be your wife, too.”

“Sansa,” he whispers, and she can hear the ‘buts’. But my name, but what I’ve done, but all my mistakes, all my failures. A hundred reasons, but she won't hear a single one, instead closes her eyes and relaxes the way she learned when it was still horrible. Jon makes wonderful desperate sounds when she devours him whole, so deep his balls press against her chin. Holding still, she gazes up into his astonished face, feels him throb inside her, his grip on her head tightening, and his hips snapping forward.

It takes a moment to find the right rhythm, but then he steadily fucks into her mouth, slow, then faster, shallow, then deeper. This is how Sansa imagined it to be, knowing that Jon would be gentle, would never just shove his dick down her throat, enjoying her panicked choking. No, she leads him with pulling or pushing his thighs, and she loves it, how his fingers dig into her scalp, how she feels his groans vibrate through his body when she keeps him lodged deep until he slides out again.

The ecstatic noises filling the room sound like music to Sansa's ears. It’s marvellous, dizzying, and she sneaks a hand under her skirt, as she keeps sucking, licking, and swallowing. Over and over, and when his balls tighten, she wraps her other around his waist, holds him in place and increases the pace, while fingering herself harder. Moaning and chanting her name, his strength swells and breaks, and a burst of white-hot pleasure shakes through her, when his warm seed covers her tongue.

Jon crumbles down and watches wide-eyed as she gulps it down before grinning at him. “Seven hells,” he whines, leans against the desk with a satisfied moan, and pulls her into his arms. They're exhausted, half dressed and soiled in sweat, spit, and their juices, and Sansa chuckles. What a picture they'd make if someone walks in. It would be worth it. Now Jon knows how madly and unconditionally she loves-

“Thank you, Sansa.”

It's the moment she snaps. No one gets under her skin, no one inflames her like Jon, and anger blazes to life in the pit of her stomach. Growling, she pushes against his chest, until he lies on the ground, shocked and confused.

“What-?" 

“Don't ever thank me,” she hisses, blood bubbling in her veins, as she straddles him. “When you're so godsdamn easy to love.”

Jon's eyes light up like wildfire going off, and before she grasps what's happening, he cups her face and claims her mouth. It’s different somehow, and then she sobs relieved when she realises why, there’s no hesitation, no restraint, no doubt in the way he kisses and touches her. 

“More, Jon,” she whispers, and a bright smile grows on his face, the one that's so rare, so blindingly beautiful, and, finally, he nods.

Eager and impatient, they're tugging and ripping at their clothes. Not burdened with a ridiculous amount of laces and clasps, Jon lies before her in his naked glory, as she drags the shift over her head, and climbs back on top of him.

“You want me to ride you?”

He smirks, and she shrieks when he cups her buttocks, lifts and pulls her up, holding her splayed thighs apart. “I want you to ride my face.”

And soon, Sansa flies heavenly high, only knows boundless love and endless bliss, only one word and one name.

“More, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's a chapter I've read and edited as much as this one, and I truly hope it was all right. 😳  
> Next Part 2, and if you think that Jon owes Sansa a declaration of his undying love, well, I think so, too. 😉  
> Be safe! xoxo


	14. Jon

It's peculiar uncomfortable and pleasant at the same time, hard and soft, too hot and yet cosy. Jon's eyes squint open, and it takes a few blinks to remember where he is and why he's lying on the ground in front of the hearth in Sansa's solar, blanketed by her naked body. Slowly raising his head, he glances around the chamber, still dimly lit by a few candles and the dying fire. Books, papers, and clothes lie on the ground, an armchair is fallen over, and somehow the commode moved from the wall half across the room. They come in waves, or like light flashes, images of them playing for hours, and he bites his lip to suppress the groan that wants to get out. They've been like beasts on a rampage, demanding ‘More!’, and ‘Again!’, until they've fucked each other senseless. Jon gulps to ease his dry throat. 

The last he recalls is her lying on the stomach, head resting on crossed arms, enveloped by him, chest pressed against her back, fingers twined in her hair, exposing her neck to his tongue and teeth nibbling and licking her hot skin, and his cock, almost leisurely, slipping in and out of her already seeping cunt, until he spilled another load inside her, and she came shivering once more, and then he must have blanked out immediately. Somehow, they've switched places, or perhaps she had to push him off, before she crawled on top of him, he thinks, wrapping his arms around her and brushing a wispy soft kiss on her temple. Either way, he wishes they could stay like this, but it can't be.

“Wake up.”

She whines, and buries her face into the crook of his neck. “No.”

“Do you want the servants to find us like this in the morning?”

“Let them,” she answers grumpily.

Chuckling, he shifts her around, and scrambles up, carrying her in his arms, making her squeak and him grunt. His legs and arms feel weak like after a battle, he thinks huffing and puffing as he sneaks into the hallway and hurries to her bedchamber, trying not to stumble. It's an effort, and with a relieved sigh, he drops her unceremoniously onto the furs, which Sansa finds very amusing. 

“Aye, laugh at me,” he gasps, short of breath. “But you've completely wrecked me.”

“Come,” she offers, tapping on the furs. “Lie down with me.” Shuffling back to make room for him, she winces. “I'm so sore, I'll surely feel it for weeks.” 

Joining her on the furs, Jon grins, mightily satisfied. Indeed, she shouldn't ever forget who that pretty pussy belongs to. “I'd say I'm sorry, but we promised, no lies.”

She snorts with an eye roll, and pushes herself up to light the candle on the bedside table. “Ugh, and I'm so sticky.”

No wonder, he thinks, eyes roaming over their bodies, covered in sweat mixed with their juices, here and there hints of reddish spots, which will surely turn blue tomorrow, and even some scratch marks. ‘Fuck me harder, fuck me faster, fuck me deeper!’, and he had. Like when they stood against the commode – that's how it moved into the room! –, his mouth lapping her hard nipples, a hand digging tight into her hip, the other into her calf to hold her leg up, as he rutted into her without mercy, while she gripped the furniture behind her. ‘Ride me, take me, feel me!’, he has urged her, and she had. Like when she hovered above him, feet firmly on the ground, knees bend, upper body arched back, hands tightly curled around his thighs, as she impaled herself on his dick, until she clenched around him, milking every drop he had to give.

He draws closer, brushing her ear with his nose, before whispering, “That's what happens to good girls playing filthy games. And you've been a dirty girl, haven't you?” Sansa nibbles her bottom lip, and flutters her eyelashes. “So greedy for my cock, for my seed. And I have filled you up good, hmmm? It's still running out of your pussy, isn't it?” 

She whimpers, and then purrs, “I just can't help myself, you make me feel so good, I can't ever get enough.” Pressing a kiss on his cheek, the sweet, but fake pout is gone, when she says sternly, “But I mean it, my cunt needs a break.”

Laughing, he stands up and walks over to the vanity table, “My dick isn't feeling too well, either. It's unpleasantly sensitive, and I think,” he ponders, taking the water basin and a washcloth before turning around again, “my balls are completely drained empty.” He places both on the bedside table, sits down and wets the cloth. “Get on your stomach.” 

She does, shuts her eyes, and as he carefully begins to clean her back, she hums relaxed, “This is nice.”

They fall silent, and Jon thinks she might be asleep, but then she says low, “I want to have children, a family.”

Her words from earlier come back, and he halts his movements. He hasn't really caught the true meaning then, utterly mesmerised by watching her on her knees, sucking and licking his cock as if it's the most delicious thing. He's been harder than ever, feeling her wet and tight throat swallowing him whole, again and again. ‘I'll be whatever you wish me to be, even your dirty whore, as long as I can be your wife, too.’ His wife, he thinks now, pure joy quickly spreading into every corner. He was convinced that she wouldn't want to marry, not him anyway, that she wouldn't want his children, soiled dragon spawn that they would be. What horseshit. “Aye.”

Propping herself up, she turns her head to glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Aye? You do understand that I want that with you, don't you?”

He smiles, certainly like the happy fool he is. “Aye, I do.”

“What about ‘That blood dies with me'?"

He shrugs and continues to clean her wonderfully silky skin. “I'm fairly sane, so far, and we know for which signs to look for, like a fondness for kindling with fire.”

“How comforting.”

“It is what it is, but if my looks are anything to go by, our combined Stark blood will be even stronger. Our children will be wolves.”

“Why did you say it then?”

“Because I was hurt that you asked for moon tea, and thought it meant that you didn't want children with me, nor marry me," he answers, and it's a bit surprising. Usually he would run screaming before he'd open up like that.

She sighs, resting her head back on the pillow. “I know I shouldn't have blurted it out like that, I'm sorry. I just thought that it would've been too soon for my plan to work, and also that you're surely panicking about fathering a bastard.”

“It's not what I would prefer, true, but I do want children, and I don't care if they're bastards or not, as long as you're their mother.”

“Good, because I won't take moon tea this time. If you put a babe in me, I'm keeping it.”

He's tempted to start praying again, to ask Gods he doesn't really believe in anymore, for his seed to have taken root. “It's not too soon now for this mysterious plan of yours?”

“I wanted to talk to you about it, but it never seemed to be a good time, then you've been gone for moons, and then things were strange after you came back, and here we are now.”

Motioning her to roll over, he says, “Tell me now,” as he wets and wrings the washcloth again, before rubbing it over her calf and knees, up to her hips.

“The lords arrive in less than a moon, and I have a speech prepared why it's the best for the North if we marry.”

“That simple?”

“In a nutshell. It's a great speech, though. Winter is coming, and so on. Also, and I know you're not going to like it much, but I think it's best to make them believe that it's a political marriage. For a while at least.”

“Too close to Targaryen custom?”

“That, and I've rejected all their proposals, and they most likely won't be too fond of you ruining their chances. I fear they'll quickly remember Rhaegar snatching Lyanna away, regardless if it's not even close to be the same. It also doesn't help that you gave the crown away to your Targaryen aunt, who hasn't turned out to be the ‘good queen for all of us'.”

It's still painful to think of it, but Jon just isn't in the mood to brood. Must be the exhaustion, he figures, and all that talk about marriage and children. “No one will ever guess how mad I am about you. I'm good at pretending.”

“So,” she says, smiling. “Since they'll all be here, we'll marry then, and if I'm with child, it's only a few weeks. They'll never know.”

“You think they'll agree so fast? And shouldn't the royal wedding be a grand affair? Don't you want it-"

“I just want us to be married already. And we're Northerners, we don't waste resources for a ridiculous display of decadence, like I've seen in Kings Landing, to show how important we are.”

It's so cute, how she scrunches up her face in disgust, and he hums pleased. “In less than a moon, they'll finally know you're mine. Can I punish them then if they dare to look at you?”

She smirks, and then lets out an overly dramatic sigh. “Oh no, all the maids and ladies, flocking around you like tenacious blowflies, poor things, I'll have to put them in the kennels. Will you miss them badly?”

“Why, when I have the prettiest mouth, the tightest cunt, and the most tempting arse to play with.”

“And only a temptation it will be.”

“You've made that very clear,” he replies, chuckling. It never stops to amaze him, that dirty mind of hers, eager to make all sorts of fantasies come true, and encouraging him to be as adventurous as she is. Alas, in the heat of the moment, he ventured a bit too far. Taking her from behind, her body bend over the armchair, her wonderful ass dangled like a ripe fruit in front of him, as if ready to be plucked, and it piqued his curiosity. Trailing two fingers down her butt crack, tentatively sweeping across the entrance, musing about how he could possibly fit in there, but that it must be amazingly tight, she took him by surprise when she straightened up and swung around fast, snarling “Hells no!”, with frighteningly narrow eyes staring daggers. Stumbling back, he grabbed the headrest for support, but instead took the armchair down with him, bumping his ass and head in the process, causing a laughing fit at his expense, deservedly, for minutes.

At last, she's clean again, and he takes the nightdress, pulls it over her head with her help, and then puts her under the furs, cosy and comfortable. Snuggling into her pillow, she closes her eyes with a content sigh. “We'll be so happy, Jon. We'll make everything so much better.”

“I told you, didn't I?”

“That you did,” she murmurs, drifting off just a second later.

After cleaning himself quickly, Jon feels torn between getting up, as he should, and to stay by her side, as he wants to. He settles for a compromise, to stay until the candle died, which can't be too long now. Rolling onto his side, he watches her peacefully sleeping face, and thinks back to when he has told her that. It has been shortly after they arrived from beyond the Wall, when she has confronted him about Daenerys. But he has been tired of speaking, of thinking of her, wishing nothing more than to never have met her, to have listened to Sansa's warnings that the invitation to Dragonstone would be a trap. So, he urged her to put the past behind them, but really, Jon realises now, he has been trapped there just as much, if not more, all the way back to when he was little. He never killed the boy, he never let the man be born. They've called him Lord Commander, King, Warden, whatever else, but he was always just Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, and it blinded him for what has been right in front of his eyes. It's like he sees clearly now, after years of running around with a hazy vision, and snorting lightly, he shakes his head. 

Sansa came all the way up north to drag him back home. She looks and smiles at him as if he's the sun after a long dark night. She makes a fuss about his eating habits, stuffs him full with biscuits, and insists on sewing and mending his clothes, when she really has much more important things to do. He is the most pampered he has ever been, and instead of embracing it for what it obviously means, he wasted time with reminding himself of all the reasons why she can't truly want him, can't love him the way he does, when everything she does contradicts those reasons. It's been like that ever since she found him at Castle Black. Sansa survived the South hiding in plain sight, pretending to be someone she wasn't, suppressing her opinions and feelings. She has never hidden, has never pretended, has never suppressed her voice, after she freed herself from the clutches of that monster, refusing to be cowed by anyone again, even by a queen with dragons who eat anything they want. Sansa would never shower him with such affection, if she wouldn't think him worthy. She wouldn't bestow him the honour of being the Lord of Winterfell to her Queen, just to replace him with some lordling with a fancy northern name. She would never let him touch her, would never touch him like that, if she wouldn't love him as unconditional as he loves her. 

‘We're free and home now, at last. You and I, Sansa. We can be happy,’ he has told her moons ago, and she has answered, ‘It's all I want. All I ever wanted.’ But the presumptuous ass that he is, he hasn't listened, hasn't believed it. Like always when she shared her feelings and opinions about this or that, and while he believed every word whenever she was displeased, when she disagreed, he doubted every compliment, every sign of support. Why?

Guilt and shame, Jon knows. He can't even remember how often he claimed to not want a crown, but it wasn't the whole truth. He never cared about the Iron Throne, but he always wanted Winterfell. He refused Stannis Baratheon’s offer to make him the Lord of Winterfell in favour of Sansa once, which was fairly easy when it was hypothetical. Not only wasn't Stannis king of anything, Jon was still bound to the Night's Watch then. But when it was real, when they named him King in the North in the Great Hall of their home, he accepted without hesitation, with her sitting right by his side. How duplicitous, and then every disagreement appeared an attempt to undermine him. He's been unfair, and ungrateful, but Sansa never faltered, never lost faith in him, even though he has given her plenty opportunities. Even after he has made all the horrible mistakes, she has fought for him. ‘But they lost their King,’ she said, yet, it fell on deaf ears, all he heard where words that have followed him since they were spoken. ‘You can't be Lord of Winterfell. You're bastard born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell.’

Foolish, he thinks, to let his brother's words, from when they were green boys, have such power over him. Foolish, to let past hurts define who he is. Foolish, to accept a fate in misery, when love and respect have been shouted into his face. He's already living his dream, but instead of making his picture perfect complete, with a lady wife and a son named Robb, he made it a nightmare for both of them. If Sansa wouldn't have been so persistent, if she would've given up on him, she would've been forced to marry someone else, duty to the North and House Stark demanding it. Someone, who doesn't look at her and sees the most wonderful person, only the most powerful in the North. Someone, who wouldn't desire her, only her crown. Someone, who wouldn't marry her for love, only for her name. It's a sad and maddening thought. They're going to marry tomorrow. Fuck her plan.

But then, Sansa would never have given up on him, that's just not who she is. While he crumbled under the weight of all his pains and burdens, she stood tall and proud regardless of what horrors fate threw at her. He once promised to watch over her, to protect her, while she claimed that no one can, when in truth, she has saved him, again and again. He's been insufferable, has pushed her away in an attempt to keep his heart's desires secret, and how much has he hurt her doing so? How often has she doubted his affection, his love, his care? She's been used and mistreated, has been told that she doesn't matter, except for her name, and he? Has he ever told her what she means to him, that she's all that matters? No.

“Sansa,” he whispers, shaking her awake. She mewls, and rolls over, her back facing him, and hiding her face behind her hands. By the Gods, it's so sweet, but Jon's heart is about to burst if he doesn't tell her right now. “It's peaceful being dead,” he begins, running a hand over her shoulders and arm. She tenses up at his words. Aye, but he has a point to make. “There is absolute nothingness, no joy, but also no sorrow. It's difficult to explain, but everything you knew, who you were ceases to exist, and it's all right. But all of a sudden, I was back, and so was the sorrow, only tenfold worse. They've dragged me back from utter tranquillity, and with being alive again came the memories of dying alone in the snow.”

“Jon,” she says softly, turning around to face him, taking his hand. 

With a small smile he presses a kiss on her knuckles. “They thought they'd need me in the fight against the Others, but I didn't care anymore. I was ready to leave the rotten, frozen wastelands behind, and go somewhere warm. But then you came, standing in the yard exhausted and dirty, and it was like I saw colours for the first time. You were as bright and beautiful like a rainbow after years of rain and bleak, grey skies. I thought to take you with me, far away from here. But you didn't want to run away, you wanted to fight back, and I should've told you sooner, but,” He pauses to take a deep breath. “I see who you are, Sansa, and it’s a sight to behold. You never give up, you never let fears control you, you never allow evil to poison your heart. You're the bravest, gentlest, and strongest person I've ever met, and I’m the luckiest man that ever walked the earth for the second chance I've been given to share my life with you.”

Her eyes glimmer watery in the candlelight, as she grabs both his hands, but he still isn't done yet. “You were right, I've been hiding my wishes, but what I really want, it's nothing wrong or shameful. I thought that I envied Robb for being the heir, but I didn't envy him for the power he would've had, I envied him for the life within these walls. The same happy life your parents had, because that's what I truly yearn for. A home to belong.” She sniffs a little, and he softly strokes the back of her hands with his thumbs. “But it’s not a place that loves and cares for you. Maybe the Gods are kind and we'll have peace until we die old here, but maybe new dark times lie ahead, but whatever happens, wherever we will go, you're my home and I belong to you.”

She's clutching his hands so tight, it slightly hurts, but he doesn't mind. Tears stream down her cheeks, but he doesn't worry, not when she looks at him with the shiniest eyes and the brightest smile, he has ever seen on her. “I love you,” he says, and she throws herself into his arms, and he holds her, as close and tight as he can.

They lie hugging long after the candle died, until he sees the first rays of the approaching sunrise. With a kiss on her forehead, he stumbles off the bed, murmuring, “Sleep a little.”

“Stay here.”

It's so tempting, but he's still naked, they're still not married, still can't be found like that, and the solar is still a mess.

“I really want to,” he sighs. “But I need to clean up the chamber.”

“Less than a moon,” she says, as if it's a comfort. And it is, in the grand scheme of things, but seems like an eternity right now.

“Or later today, just for us?”

Her eyes widen, and then she hums pleased. “I like that,” she says softly, and closes her eyes, dropping off within a second.

He has to force himself, but eventually leaves, and hurries back to the solar, time's running by now. Putting on his breeches and tunic, he then starts to remove any signs of the place being their playground. It's tedious, and he'd rather sleep as well, instead of picking up books and papers, and moving furniture around. He does though, because he takes care of things, he does what needs to be done, even when it's unpleasant and he doesn't want to. He chuckles, because it’s not so bad, when he also gets what he wants, when he grants himself to take the happiness offered, when he allows himself to just be who he truly is. He’s exhausted, his eyes burn, and so do his legs and arms, even his overused cock, but he never felt better. He’s never felt this content, light-hearted, and free, and a bright smile grows on his face. Life's good, and Jon is perfectly fine with all that is, all that was, and all that'll be. 

Winter is coming, but spring will always follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, and he tested all our patience, and I hope Jon's love declaration didn't disappoint. Sansa seems happy though. 😉
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	15. Epilogue - Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, 
> 
> This is Sansa's last chapter, and it has been so much fun to write her in this story and I really hope you'll enjoy her epilogue.  
> PS: There's a significant time jump, and some flashbacks, and I hope it's not confusing...

At last, the moon has risen behind the trees and roofs of Winterfell, and Sansa makes herself comfortable in their bed, while watching the clear night sky. The summer days are mostly sunny and mild – some even say sweltering, but only those who never felt the choking heat in the South –, but the nights are still chilly, and so a small fire in the hearth bestows warmth and a soft light. It's as cosy as always, but wrapping the furs snuggly around herself, Sansa sighs weary. After years of pain, of betrayals, of harsh winters, the North is free and thriving, and yes, she's grateful that they lived long enough to celebrate such a happy occasion. But Winterfell is stacked up to the roof with guests, and she just yearns for quiet days and quiet evenings sharing stories and biscuits, and quiet restful nights. It's selfish, she knows, everyone is so excited, but she's already exhausted, and the main event hasn't even happened yet. Sansa groans into her pillow, wondering – not for the first time – what in the seven hells they've been thinking to throw a feast as grand as Winterfell hasn't seen in almost two decades. It had been partly duty, because until now they've refused to waste too many resources for celebrating some anniversary, and partly because they couldn't deny wide pleading eyes staring up at them. They suck, Sansa thinks – also not for the first time –, and she wishes she could say it's all Jon's fault, but she's just as ridiculous soft as he. Regardless, it's a great reason to have a feast, the first heir to the Northern Throne born in freedom since Aegon’s conquest will turn ten in two days. They're going to light up the Northern sky with the grandest display of fireworks Westeros has ever seen!

If only the person of the hour wouldn't be so difficult lately, clearly too fond of all the fuss everyone is making. Sansa rubs her forehead in a feeble attempt to smoothen the deep frown, recalling tantrums whenever she doesn't get what she wants in exactly the second she wants it. “But it's my tenth nameday!” is being shouted and heard all across the grounds of Winterfell seemingly every hour or so. It's maddening, and Sansa's certain it's the dragon blood, despite Jon’s denial.

“I neither like attention, nor do I believe to be the centre of the world,” he claimed a few days ago in their solar.

“Please,” Sansa replied, waving her hand dismissively. “For years you believed to be the saviour of the whole bloody world. If that's not having delusions of grandeur, I don't know what is.”

Jon had laughed then, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her flush against him, and whispered, “You still fell for my presumptuous ass,” before kissing her breathless, while leading them through the room until the back of her thighs hit the desk. Alas, just as he was about to pick her up, her little majesty marched in, either having forgotten or, most likely, not caring about the rule of knocking first before entering a room that's not hers. They jumped apart, but their daughter either didn't notice or, again, didn't care, too miffed about her parent’s obvious incompetence to even fulfil her simplest wishes. Indeed, what's so difficult to get a magician from somewhere in Essos, she had heard about a day earlier, for her special day?

Sansa rolls over, glaring at Jon's empty side of the bed. He's still down in the Great Hall with Tormund, Sam, and Bran, and who knows who else, drinking, catching up, and reminiscing the past. They haven't seen each other often in the last decade, all busy with their own responsibilities, and she wants him to have fun, truly, but she just doesn't sleep well without him snoring beside her. It's always a chore when duty demands that they travel their kingdom, and they can't together. Not because they wouldn't care about their people, but because the lack of proper sleep makes it even more difficult to endure the separation. It’s probably overly cautious, perhaps even superstitious, but they'd never leave their young daughter to be the Stark in Winterfell all by herself. The last time, the Ironborn took their home, and all went to shit, even more than it already had. Better safe than sorry. Besides, for a couple of years now the crown princess comes along, so that she learns about their land and the people. It brings a smile on Sansa’s tired face, certain that she'll be a good and loved queen some day, despite her being a pain right now. She's fierce and strong, but also kind and generous, just like she hoped a daughter of hers would be.

Reaching for Jon's pillow, she presses her nose into it, and takes a deep breath. The people say she's conceived at their wedding night, born nine moons after almost to the day, clearly a sign for the Gods’ blessing. It's not true, it was weeks earlier, she just took her time. It wasn't their true wedding either, they've exchanged their vows in front of the Heart Tree the afternoon after the night they'd played all sorts of games, squeezed in between some meeting she can't remember anything about, and dinner. Sansa does remember, though, how she fell into her bed that night, sore and utterly exhausted, but convinced that it will be the most perfect day until her last. It wasn't, many more even better and happier followed since then. Anyway, it's a good story, and one doesn't tell their child that they're made when their unmarried parents fucked each other until they blacked out on the floor.

Less than a moon after that night, the lords have been unanimously supportive of their union when Sansa had held her grand speech of why it's best for the North. She had assumed that they were probably glad that the succession was secured, or simply too tired of conflict, either way, they happily cheered “The King and Queen in the North!", and still do. Never has a plan gone as smooth, she had thought, mightily pleased with herself, only to learn in the weeks after that their secret play nights hadn't been that secret, and too distracted with themselves, they haven't noticed that everyone gossiped about them for moons. Sansa would've been embarrassed, worried, and infuriated if she would've had the time or strength for it, but by then more important things demanded her attention. She had a kingdom to rule, a babe was growing inside her, and her wonderful husband wasn't exactly relaxed about it.

Jon had driven her to the brink of madness in the early days. It begun when she cheerfully shared the happy news in the Godswood, expecting a very different reaction than the one she got. He didn't smile, didn't hug nor kissed her, no, instead he fell in some sort of shock for days. Jon still insists that he was just surprised, perhaps for an hour or so. He wishes, she thinks scoffing, still seeing him standing stock still and silent, but clutching her hands so tight, as if he'd fall over otherwise, and staring at her belly, as if he expected the babe to jump out any second. It had taken quite some effort to lead him back to the keep, and the next few days he followed her dazed and speechless, until he'd found his voice back. She should've expected it, but then she'd wondered quite often if he may have lost all sense. Of course, she knew his mother died giving birth to him, and that he feared nothing more than this happening to her, hence the overly strict protection he had put in place, which she didn't like, but tolerated. Unacceptable was that he wouldn't touch her, at all. How even his hands and fingers possibly could hurt her or the babe, he couldn't explain, naturally, but he'd been firm on it anyway. Yet, as much as Sansa tried to be empathetic, she'd never felt as wanton as then, and just looking at Jon dampened her smallclothes. The rules still in place, she wouldn't ever try to make him do something he didn't really want, and so the weeks passed, her frustration grew, until one evening she was certain to perish.

“Don't you even care?!” She called out, hot and lightheaded from his scent, while he sat next to her in their bed, reading whatever.

“What?”

“I'm suffering! And you refuse-"

“Sansa,” he sighed, lightly annoyed. Needless to say, it hadn't improved her mood. “I've told you, it's not easy for me either. I want you so much, all the time, but-"

“If you'd feel even a little like I do, you'd fuck me all day," she retorted, and he had averted his eyes for a split second, which she found somewhat suspicious. “What?”

“Do we have to talk about this again?”

“We do, and you're hiding something. Don't lie.”

He'd dared to roll his eyes. “I'm not. Just, well, it's nothing,” he hummed and hawed. “Well, once or twice, I used a moment alone to-"

Sansa sucked in a breath, placing her hand on her heart, deeply affronted. “How dare you? While you've made sure that I'm never alone in case I choke on my tea, or whatever you think could happen while I sit at the desk, you're enjoying yourself?”

“Once or twice! And the guard stands outside your solar, so-”

“Oh, so you think I should pull up my skirts with the guard potentially entering while I-"

“No!”

Sansa had thrown herself on her back, and decided, “I'll take matters into my own hands then, too, and you need to turn around. Now.”

“What?” He croaked, eyes widening as Sansa slowly moved her hand over her breasts, down her stomach.

“You don't get to enjoy watching me, you don't deserve it.”

Jon huffed, but did as told, and while she wasn't quite in the mood any longer, Sansa did feel a bit revengeful. Stroking herself over the nightshift, humming pleased, she whispered, “Regardless of where I am or what I do, I think of your hard cock, that always makes me feel so good. My lonely, dripping cunt is always ready, and I imagine how you'd just grab me wherever we are, and fuck me however you please, because I'm nothing but your dirty little-"

“Stop! Have mercy, please!”

“Of course, husband, your wish is my command. It's a shame, though, don't you agree, that we're finally free to do as we please, but I still haven't shouted your name so that all the lecherous men out there hear that my pussy belongs to you? That only your cock gets to fill me up, that only your tongue and fingers get to pleasure me, so well, my juices squirt all over you?”

Turning around with a feral grunt, he had gripped her hand so hard it almost hurt, and Sansa loved it. “Are you seducing or punishing me?”

She shrugged. “We promised to have no secrets, so I'm simply sharing mine. How could I've known that they'd affect you so, as deaf as you've been to my previous pleas to release me from my pain?”

Jon had snarled, deep and hoarse, and Sansa had purred, “Perhaps I'm trying to change your mind. Is it fair? No. But is it fair that you won't give your wife what she needs?” Way too gone by then, Sansa had freed herself from his grasp, and delivered the final blow. “I would scream your name so loud, it'd be heard as far as the Wall, White Harbour and the Neck,” she told him, and cruelly ignoring his whimpers, turned her back to him. “I promise, I'll try to be quiet when I come. Sleep well."

Jumping out of bed, and hurrying to the door, he had commanded, “Wait, and keep your hands off yourself!”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Maester.”

So simple, but Sansa hadn't thought of that, then too used that everything's always complicated and never easy when it came to Jon. She still doesn't know what exactly Maester Wolkan told him that night, only that Jon claims it the most uncomfortable conversation in his entire life. Anyway, when he had returned, he made her scream for all to hear, and from that night on it became their favourite game. He'd played the unwilling with such vigour, encouraging Sansa to come up with all sorts of surprising ways to change his mind, and it had been the most fun they ever had.

And then, from one day to the next, their whole life changed to never be the same again. Nothing mattered anymore, but the tiny human being that they've made. Overwhelmed with awe and happiness, they'd spent as much time as possible with the most beautiful, most perfect, most precious creature that ever existed, watching utterly mesmerised every little thing she did, even sleeping. Sansa chuckles, recalling how they suffered one panic attack after the other whenever something unexpected and unexplainable happened, both eagerly obsessing and worrying over everything, especially after she'd began to crawl and then to walk, and every scratch seemed a failure. Poor Maester Wolkan surely hadn't had one hour for himself for a year or so, neither during the days nor nights. They still worry, of course, but after so many years and experience, they know that a fall on the butt and a grazed knee aren't really life threatening.

Burying her face in Jon's pillow again, she inhales deeply, still hoping that it will help to fall asleep, when she hears the door creaking. 

“I'm awake,” she says as he sneaks in, and sits up to watch him carelessly disposing his clothes right where he stands. He's even more handsome than when they were young and stupid, she thinks, feeling the familiar swarm of butterflies like a warm tingling in her belly. He cut his hair some years ago, tired of it being enthusiastically pulled at and entangled in – surprisingly strong – small fingers, and then got used to the easy maintenance. A beard is still framing his pretty face, or more accurately, again. For a while he went without one, which was nice, but she likes it better now, loving the soft scrap on her skin when he kisses her. He's still so very strong, and when time permits it, she spends hours watching him in the training yard, or in the carpenter's workshop, daydreaming of him dirtying her afterwards. But she also adores the small belly he nurtures from all the biscuits she feeds him, as he says. It's soft and cosy, and she loves to lay her head on it, to feel the calming rhythm of his breathing and heartbeat. She sighs, unable to remember when they made love the last time, the grand celebration messing with their routines for way too long now.

“Are you too tired?”

A grin grows on his face, and he shakes his head while clumsily stumbling out of his breeches and smallclothes, and then almost falls over the chair in front of the vanity table on the way to the door, and Sansa can't help but to snort. “How much ale did you drink? Are you even up to it?” She wonders amused.

He turns around, and swings his hips, presenting his half hard cock in all its glory. “Have I ever not been up to it?” 

She laughs as she pushes the furs away, and quickly frees herself of her smallclothes and nightshift. “Hurry, who knows how much time we have,” she urges, laying down and spreading her legs invitingly, her cunt already moist from anticipation. 

Jon strides up to the bed, after securing the door from untimely intruders, avoiding all pitfalls, and a second later he's on top of her, capturing her mouth with his lips and tongue, his hand cupping her breast, playing with her hardened nipple, before it moves between her legs. He prepares her skilled and precise, knowing her preferences like his own, and soon, ready and impatient, she takes his member and aligns him at her entrance. Both sigh relieved as he slides in, it has truly been too long. Lifting her legs all the way up to his shoulders, he sinks deeper, filling her to the hilt, and she wraps her arms around his back, pulling him down, so close, all she sees is him. She loves this, it's as if the world disappears and only them exist. She loves the sounds he makes, the heavy breathing, the moaning. She loves how his tense muscles move in his back, his arms, his arse. She loves how his soft belly presses against hers. She won't ever get enough of this, it's like two separate things melting to become one, and every time they leave a part of their hearts behind. How else is it possible to love someone more and more?

Leaning into his touch when he caresses her cheek, she hums contentedly as he bestows her lips a gentle kiss before whispering, “I love you, too. More with each year, each moon, each day.”

They move slow, leisurely dragging out the all too rare moment of complete togetherness, despite the looming disruption, until she feels her peak slowly building.

“Faster, please,” she begs, because he still likes when she does, and then the slapping sound of their joined bodies and their groans fill the room. Hands tightly around her ankles, keeping her legs apart and her pussy wide open, he pounds into her, just how she likes it best, and soon she starts to quiver, digs her nails into his skin, and bites his shoulder, as he leads her through the waves of pleasure, before his movements become erratic and he spills deep inside her.

Entangled, they catch their breath and enjoy the wonderful haze of the aftermath with bright satisfied smiles. It passes too soon, but after freshening up, and removing all evidence of their quick trip to their little paradise, they're finally comfortably tucked under the furs, snuggled against each other, immediately dropping off into blessed sleep.

What feels like a minute later they sit straight up, momentarily confused by the havoc outside their chamber, relentless knocks combined with whiny and outraged cries.

“Gods, they'll wake the whole castle,” Sansa sighs, already shifting to the far side of the bed, while Jon scrambles out of it and shuffles to the door, muttering curses under his breath. It’s not even fully open, when they push past him, hurrying to and then jumping on the bed, conquering it with no resistance whatsoever, while demanding to know why the door was locked. Ignoring their question, Jon lies down at the other edge of the too small mattress, and grunts a command to sleep now. The obedient children they are, they're quiet for a blink of the eye. Sansa knows it's the feast that keeps them up, that has them dream weird things as they say, which is why they haven't had a night alone for weeks now. It's the most exciting event so far in their – thankfully – usually quiet lives, and so they keep babbling about everyone new they've met, and everything new they've seen and heard. At least the locked door seems to be forgotten. 

Looking over their three pups, Sansa smiles. She could still spend hours just watching them, as challenging as they are sometimes. They're perfect, so cute and smart, and so pretty. They look like Jon, the same beautiful soft dark hair, the same grey eyes, and the same mouth, all Stark from head to toe, only with a Tully nose. It's truly a sight to behold to see them standing in line next to their father, all dressed up and their faces as stern as his, Sansa thinks. It had been an effort to not burst out laughing a couple of days ago when she saw them waiting in the yard to greet their uncle arriving from the South. 

Sometimes she's still surprised by how wonderful her life turned out to be, to have so many reasons to be happy, to smile and laugh about. She had lost faith so young, deemed the Gods either non-existent or cruel, but now she sometimes kneels in front of the Heart Tree, thanking them and humbly asking for their continued blessing. She knows better than to take anything good for granted, Winter is coming, so she tries to cherish every day. Unlike when she had returned from Kings Landing the second time. Then, she only cherished and nurtured her anger. She had been so miserable, so furious, with her mind stuck, only ever thinking of Jon and his undeserved carefree life beyond the wall. She had told herself back then, that she brought him home to punish him, for breaking every promise he had ever made, and to a degree it's true, but she's long past lying to herself. She went all the way up to the ‘true North', because she missed him so much, it had been like a constant pain in her heart, like a hole that grew with every day he wasn't there. Regardless, all the doubting, the fighting, the hurting, had been worth it, because it had led them to here. They still quarrel, no one riles her up like Jon does, no one is as stubborn and annoying as he, but no one makes her laugh like he does, no one calms her like he does, and no one is as understanding and caring as he. Never had she thought that sharing her life with Jon would be so marvellous, so shameless, so hard and easy at the same time, and Sansa wouldn't want it any other way.

Free and peaceful, and so full of love, she closes her eyes. No more secrets to unfold, no more lies to uncover, no promises to break, she thinks with a smile, drifting into slumber at the sound of Jon's snore and the little ones prattling about fireworks, magicians, and favourite cakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one to go!
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	16. Epilogue - Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Here's Jon's epilogue and - fair warning - it's fluffy, because as far as I'm concerned, he deserves as much fluffy fluff as there possibly is. I hope you'll like it anyway.

The wind is a soft breeze and the autumn sun shines bright, warming Jon's face as he sits leisurely in front of the Heart Tree. The Godswood is coloured in all variations of yellow, orange and red, and it looks magnificent in the sunlight, but Jon knows it could all be over tomorrow and they may have to slosh through mountains of mud again. How fitting that after weeks of pouring rain it stopped just in time for the happy occasion, he thinks glancing over to the three little pups sitting comfortably on blankets and furs, protected from the moist ground. They seem immersed in their task, but Jon knows they're just tired and anticipating the arrival of the newest addition to their pack, as he is.

The Gods were truly forgiving and generous, and granted him his wishes to come true. He doesn't really know what, but he must have done something right, he reckons. Bran had once said that the ink is dry anyway, but all that can and should be done is to make sure that past mistakes aren't repeated. They try and work hard, so that not only their but everyone's children won't ever know the same horrors as they. Of course, they don't know that they're living as carefree as they possibly could, they cry tears and throw tantrums over most mundane things, and Jon wishes that would never change, but winter is coming. 

The first time he had sat here waiting had been a different experience, and not one he is particularly interested in repeating. Sansa had forbidden him inside the birthing chamber, and so he paced in front of it, suffering through her muffled whines and loud cries for an eternity, until he couldn't take it anymore. Certain that something was wrong, he had marched in, but everything that happened afterwards is a bit blurry. He vaguely remembers that someone pushed him out of the door, and feeling a little faint from what he had seen in there, he had stumbled around until he ended up in the Godswood. Sam has helped Gilly giving birth of all their children, and talks about it as if it's the most glorious experience ever. Perhaps, but Jon's quite satisfied with being a coward sitting here and praying. Besides, he's not completely useless. It's his duty to keep the pups occupied while they wait for their new sibling, and he has a routine by now. Between picnicking for lunch and skipping the nap, they've spent the whole day playing fun games, which tired them out so much, that for the past half hour they’ve been braiding their hairs and making pretty crowns of grass and leaves in silence. They'll fall asleep in no time, he predicts, quite pleased with himself.

“What a rare sight,” a familiar voice says from behind.

“Gods damn, Arya!” He hisses, grabbing his heart. “How many times must I say don't do that?!” She snickers amused as she sits down beside him. “Is the babe here? Already?”

“No. This one seems to be even less in a hurry than the others,” she answers, and Jon sees the dark shade under her eyes. It's been a long night and day. “Sansa send me to check up on you.”

“How is she?”

“Impatient, as usual,” Arya moans, but she wouldn't want to be anywhere else, no matter how vexing her sister can be. 

She had returned from her exploration of the western seas a week before their first daughter had been born, and Jon remembers their reunion as if it was yesterday. For over a year they had convinced themselves that because their family had left, they wouldn't get to have an opinion, wouldn't get to judge them, wouldn't get to stand in their way to happiness. But shortly after their wedding, Bran had sent a letter giving his blessing, and it had been such a great relief, it had clearly proved the opposite to be true. No matter where their family is, they always get to have an opinion, they still get to judge. It was then when they've spoken about Arya, and Sansa shared all her fears, crying and sniffing into his tunic. She'd been certain, and Jon tended to agree, that her sister would never be fine with them, would accuse her of being depraved, and for ruining her favourite brother. After that, they've avoided the topic. What's the point when they both knew the outcome, but didn't know if Arya would ever return in the first place?

Then, one night, Sansa had woken him up, and Jon had thought that the overdue babe would finally come. But she was just hungry, again, and so he had sneaked into the kitchens, preparing a plate with her favourites.

“Sweets for your sweet wife?”

Jon had frozen, contemplated if his mind was making up shit again, as he slowly turned around. But it wasn't a hallucination, Arya had stood in the doorframe, glaring at him with narrowed, scornful eyes. Jon's heart had dropped into his stomach like a heavy stone, and he knew then that against their expectations, she wouldn't blame Sansa.

“Did you just come back?” He had asked in a weak attempt to dissuade the tension.

“No,” she had replied coolly. “I had to see if it's really true and not the grossest joke, as I hoped.”

Nodding, he had leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, readying himself for what he knew was to come.

“We're Starks, not Lannisters or Targaryens, I have thought. But then I remembered who you truly are.”

“She is not my si-”

“Don't even dare,” she had snapped. “Neither am I then? Nor are Bran, Rickon and Robb your brothers?” 

Jon had wished the ground would open and swallow him whole, all the shame he had buried deep rising up with vengeance. “I know, it's complicated,” he had replied lamely. 

“Complicated?” She had scoffed.

“I don't know what else to say.”

“It's not good enough.”

“Maybe it isn't, but it has to be. Believe me, I have ignored it, denied it, fought it, even fled,” he paused, and rubbed his tired eyes, before taking a deep breath. “I know it is strange. I am living it! Father is still my father, and you are still my sister, and all of them are my siblings, and yet she isn't. But I don't care anymore.” Walking over to her, he had lightly put his hands on her shoulders, and asked imploringly, “Please, don't you want us to be happy?" Huffing, she stepped away. Perhaps, he had wondered, she couldn't tolerate being close to him anymore. “Aye, be angry with me, hate me, but please don't fight with Sansa about this. If you can't accept us, she won't ever forgive herself. Please.”

Arya had paced around and around, muttering curses, until she stopped in front of him again. “This is so wrong, I don't know how to accept it.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling, and so does Sansa. Perhaps we're too broken, perhaps I came back wrong, perhaps it is my cursed blood, perhaps she- I don't know why, but it is what it is, and I'm so tired of fighting, Arya. All I want is to live.”

Seemingly unmoved, she had stared at him, but then she averted her face. Suddenly, the tension, the hostility vaporised as her whole demeanour changed. It had reminded him of when she was little, hurting but trying to pretend to be strong. “I used to be your favourite,” she had murmured, so vulnerable, he had the urge to hug her tight, and took a step closer, and another one when she retreated. “You've been the only one who preferred me over her, but-"

“No!” He had called out, and then pulled her into the hug, despite her hesitation. “Don't ever think that! Nothing changed between us. Nothing will ever change! It's not about preferring anyone over the other, or choosing sides or favourites. It's just about a different kind of love.”

“Seven hells, I hope so!” She had muttered into his chest, and finally returned the embrace, and Jon felt as if a last missing piece was falling into place, finally. 

Letting go of him, she had walked over to the counter, and popped a raisin into her mouth. “Sansa's at least a much better choice than that murderous aunt of yours, if you need to keep it in the family.”

“Not funny.”

“It kind of is,” she had quipped. “But by the Gods, old and new, do not ever kiss or anything in front of me. I'm damaged enough as it is, I don't need more images burned in my mind haunting me.” 

“I promise, our babes will be miraculously appearing out of nowhere. Would you'd like it though, if we'd name our firstborn daughter after you?”

“Please, I arrived days ago. Don't pretend that's a spontaneous idea to win me over. But yes, I'd like that.”

They had stood in peaceful silence whilst eating the raisins and some biscuits. To his shame, his hungry waiting wife completely forgotten.

“Have you found out what's west of Westeros?“

“Water.”

“What?”

“West of Westeros is a whole lot of water, and then Essos, with a few unpopulated islands in between.”

“How-”

“Disappointing? Indeed. Underwhelming? It sure is.”

“Did you have fun anyway?”

“I did.”

“Good, but I'm so glad you're back. I've missed you so much, and Sansa- Oh shit! Stop eating her biscuits! And take the cheese over there!” He had commanded, as he quickly refilled the plate.

"You're afraid of her!” She had called out, mouth full, laughing heartily at his expense.

Jon had grabbed the plate and Arya's arm, dragging her with him. “I've seen whole new sides of her lately. Dark and kind of vicious,” he confided. “She blames me for everything, mostly for ever having dared to lay a hand on her. Which I haven't!” He had added, when Arya hissed an annoyed curse. “Anyway. As if it's my fault that the babe finds it so cosy in her belly. Which is kind of understandable. If I could, I'd never leave her-"

“For fucks sake, shut up!”

Sansa had sat upright in the bed, and glared at him so dark and furious, Jon felt an absolute arse, despite having a perfect excuse. So, just when she was about to let her anger rain down on him, he had pulled Arya out from behind the door, and as expected and hoped, her fury puffed away instantly. She had broken out in tears and tried to scramble up from the bed, alas, moving had been quite difficult with the huge belly, which just made her cry more. It had been so heart-wrenching, Arya took mercy and hurried over to hug her fiercely, promising to never leave her again like that.

And so, she had held Sansa's hand when she had given birth the first time, and every time since. She still travels, but at least she keeps her explorations to known lands. She hasn't married, instead she has acquaintances. Of course, she doesn't talk about it, not with Jon anyway. The latest is a young merchant who settled in Wintertown, which grew to a permanent settlement in the last years. Jon doesn't like him much, but Sansa thinks he's a nice fellow.

“I'd like to change my wager,” Arya says now.

Jon smirks. “Pray tell, why? You've been so very sure.”

“Maester Wolkan had been certain it'll be a boy every time, and we know how spot on he's been,” she replies sarcastically, nodding to her three nieces. “But this time, he hadn't, so it seemed a safe bet. Anyway, my gut tells me different now.”

He hums understanding, but then says, "My gut tells me, I'd be a fool for letting you off easy.”

“Fine, take all my coins then. Honestly, how difficult can it be to make a stupid boy?” 

He shrugs, but then remembers what happened only a week ago, and it smothers his good mood. He glances at their eldest, scrutinisingly. Just a blink of an eye ago he had held her in his arms, so tiny and fragile, and a week ago he had overheard her swooning over some boy, who apparently isn't all that stupid. Unfortunately, he couldn't find out, yet, who the moron is who's about to curse the day he had dared to even look at her. Sansa thinks it's oh so adorable how smitten she seems to be. Jon suspects that his wife knows who the culprit is, but just won't tell to prevent that he'll do something embarrassing, again. Really, what does that even mean? He protects his pack, is all, how can that ever be embarrassing?

How many hours had he spent furious, imagining to end the lives of all the men whose lecherous eyes had followed his Sansa everywhere she went, how often had he fantasised about locking her up in a tower, only for him to see, to touch, to play with, out of fear she gets snatched away? But somehow, he allowed himself to become almost careless. Let them look, he had thought, but he's the one she's looking at, and that's all that matters. True, except that he has three girls now, surely four soon, just as pretty and perfect as their mother. How long until lecherous eyes follow his precious little girls? It sparks the familiar fury, and his fingers twitch around Longclaw's pommel.

“Planning a murder?” Arya asks. “Need help?”

“They grow up too fast.”

“Ah, yes. Sansa told me that you're having issues with little Arya-," she stops when Jon snorts. “It's the age that counts, not the height. Anyway, she's going to be fine. Have you seen how she had beaten that boy in the training yard the other day? He's a head taller, but she had him on his back in less than ten minutes.”

He smiles pleased. “Aye, that had been bloody brilliant. And she shoots arrows almost as well as you had in her age.”

She nods, observing the girls. “Sometimes, I still can't believe how nice life turned out to be for us.” She shakes her head a little, as if she can't quite grasp it to be real. “The times have changed, and here in Winterfell it seems to be a whole new age, but in truth it's not, not for all girls. I see it often enough on my travels. Yours are lucky, and they'll be as prepared as they could be for whatever challenges lie ahead. They’re wolves, not sheep, and winter is coming.”

He'd been utterly terrified when the full extent of his responsibility to be a father dawned on him. When he had first seen her, first held her, he'd been so overcome with love, that for a few blissful hours he had felt nothing but pure joy. Until he remembered the death traps behind every corner, so many more for girls than for boys, and that it was up to him to keep her from falling into any of them. That might have been more frightening than the Others knocking at their gate.

“I thought I knew it all by now, thought that nothing could scare me anymore, until I've heard her talking about that boy who isn't stupid.”

“She's not even eleven, Jon. She's not going to run off-"

“Shhh! Don't give her ideas.”

“You're being ridiculous. But maybe the Gods are kind and gift you a son this time.”

“The Gods were kind three times already, and you just want to win the bet.”

“Aye, I do,” Arya chuckles, and gets up. “I should go back.”

A few hours later the babe still desperately holds on to the comfort of Sansa's belly, whilst Jon rest leisurely in the armchair in his old chamber, utterly worn out. After Arya left them, the girls had soon finished their artwork with their hairs and pretty crowns, and after dinner they've gotten ready for bed. Once all were bathed and settled, he had come to read to them, something Sansa usually does. She's so good in telling stories, even varies her voice, making it almost a play, and him a truly sorry substitute in comparison, but the two elder sisters fell asleep in the middle of it anyway, as predicted. Branda, though, had been beside herself when she realised that her mother wouldn't even come to bid her goodnight. She had declared that she changed her mind, that she likes to be the littlest and therefore the new babe wouldn't be needed anymore. She had cried bitter tears, and Jon soothed her until she fell asleep in his arms, sulky and unhappy.

He chuckles now, resting his head against a soft cushion, as he recalls the last time when he had that discussion with their second, Sarra. He'd never say, but secretly he thinks her to be the smartest. She's quieter, always observes her surroundings, and hardly ever outbursts when she's upset. Instead of crying, much, she had argued half the night about the disadvantages of another babe. He'd been so fucking tired, he was tempted to agree with the then four-year old. More often than not, they find themselves granting her whatever she wishes just because she tricks them so cleverly. But on the bright side, she'll be a brilliant advisor for their eldest when she takes over the crown. 

Jon remembers what it was like to be haunted by the past, how heavy the weight of guilt was, how weak and despaired it made him feel. He'd been half a dead man, who couldn't even recognise happiness. Now, he loves it to indulge in reminiscing all of the wonderful memories they've made ever since Sansa had saved him from a life in misery. How adventurous they've been in the beginning, everything had been new, everything had been the most exciting. These days, they prefer to hide from too much excitement, blissfully comfortable in living a life in cosy boredom. They still play sometimes, but there's nothing they haven't done countless times, and he wouldn't want it any other way. Besides, there's nothing more adventurous than sharing a life with another and raising children.

Taking the cushion into his hands, he slowly follows the lines of the embroidery with his fingertips. They've made it for his last nameday, with Sansa's help, and it shows Ghost in front of the Weirwood tree. It brings a smile on his face, it's so pretty, and everywhere he looks, everywhere he goes, he finds pretty things that they've made. It's funny, how he had firmly declared that he wouldn't care about all of that when Uncle Benjen had told him that he's too young to join the Night's Watch. And so he had gone off to the Wall to spend a harsh life in the bleak cold amongst boys and men. He must have done something right, he thinks again, that somehow, he ended up back home, always warm amongst his girls. No, Jon wouldn't want to change anything, he's living a dream, a fairy tale with his Queen of love and beauty, and it just can't get any better, he thinks and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

He startles when he feels a wet snout on his cheek, and for good measure, Ghost bumps his head against his. “I'm awake, boy,” he says, getting up, and is a bit surprised when he sees the red sky of the morning already. “Is the new pup there?”

Ghost answers by trotting to the door and waiting there. Jon follows his direwolf, and as he steps into their bedchamber, he has only eyes for his wife sitting in the bed, cradling the newest member of their pack. Glancing up, she smiles, and Jon notices how utterly exhausted she looks, but at the same time, almost glows from happiness. When he reaches her, he leans down and presses a kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and then calls out a surprised “Oh!” when he sees a beautiful face with a red mop of hair.

“Yes, a redhead,” Sansa says, and stroking the cheek with a finger, she sighs, “Isn't she pretty?”

He nods, and caressing her other cheek, he says, “Hello, little Mara.” As Sansa hands him the bundle, his daughter looks at him somewhat curious, and he’s already hopelessly in love.

“Don’t you think it has been a bit risky to stake all of our savings against Arya?”

Not taking his eyes off little Mara, he snorts. “With such an easy win, I couldn't let the opportunity pass, could I?” He retorts, swaying a little with the bundle in his arm. “I knew you'd be a girl, and aren't you the cutest,” he coos.

“Turn around.”

He does as told, and is instantly confused, when he sees Arya holding another bundle, grinning bright, and very smug. “What?”

“That's why Sansa looked like a whale-"

“Not nice!”

“A tiny whale,” Arya offers, placing the second bundle into the crook of his free arm. 

“What?” He repeats, and doesn't understand what's funny, but Arya laughs, maybe Sansa, too. His sister kindly leads him to the bed, and pushes him down. Sitting helps. He looks up into her beaming face, as if this wouldn’t be confusing at all. He lowers his gaze back to the bundles in his arms, and absentmindedly hears whispers, notices vaguely that his boots are removed and that hands help him to get settled on the bed next to Sansa. He hears steps and paws padding on the floor, and then a door closing, but he can just stare at the babes, both with reddish hair and big blue eyes. “What?”

“Twins. A girl and a boy,” Sansa explains, and he feels the warmth of her hand wrapping around his arm, and her other softly stroking his cheek. It's calming and fortifying, it always is, and when she says, “Come, welcome him, too,” he does. 

“Hello, little Robb.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, the kind comments, and the kudos! It had been a fun ride and I am a bit sad that it's over. I hope you liked the ending!


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